


And knowledge and tears and chance

by hope_calaris



Category: Social Network (2010)
Genre: Fix-It, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-04
Updated: 2011-12-04
Packaged: 2017-10-26 21:17:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/288021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hope_calaris/pseuds/hope_calaris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night that Eduardo returns to Palo Alto, his girlfriend does worse than set a little fire: Christy nearly kills Eduardo. Unfortunately, that’s not the only thing standing between him and Mark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The moment unicorns are real, I make money with this. Title taken from the poem “Alive together” by Lisel Mueller.

“But I had to get your attention.”

That’s the last thing he hears from Wardo for a long time -- at least the last full sentence. He hears a lot after that, a surprised yelp, muffled noises, rushed breathing which sounds surprisingly like someone’s in pain, a thump -- nothing.

“Mark … ” somebody whispers, maybe it’s Wardo. He can’t tell.

And then the call disconnects. Dumbfounded, he stands next to the swimming pool and tries to make sense of everything. It’s not easy, because sound is no code, and he’s somebody who already has trouble deciphering meaning when he sees faces.

One working theory is that Wardo simply doesn’t want to talk to him anymore, too angry and too childish to face him right now. But he had Mark’s attention, so it doesn’t make sense to hang up right then (and it has nothing to do with the fact that Wardo’s never hung up on him before and as much as Mark can’t change who he is, Wardo could never change his behavior towards Mark).

It’s the other working theory that makes Mark sprint into the house, though. It’s not as much as a formulated theory, but more a feeling of utter terror in a region of his stomach he didn’t know could express such feelings. He pushes Dustin from a chair, ignores his protest and begins to type. He has no idea where in New York Wardo lives (although Wardo probably told him, but the part of Mark’s brain that stores this important piece of information won’t cooperate right now), but he knows Wardo’s number by heart and that’s enough for his skills in combination with the internet. Dustin is still complaining about his behavior, but Mark couldn’t care less, because his stomach hurts and Wardo may have hung up on him.

He gets the location of Wardo’s cell and calls 911 the next second. The lady on the other end doesn’t understand what he wants from her the first three tries, and he finds out that yelling doesn’t help at all. She even threatens to hang up on him and his “utter nonsense about a crime in New York City when they’re in Palo Alto”. The world is stupid, he thinks, and wishes for Wardo, because he’s always been the people’s person, has always known what to say and how to make people listen. Mark -- he’s not good with this at all. The only people he even remotely gets are Chris and Dustin -- and Wardo, of course. Finally, he gets the lady to listen and maybe it’s because he sounds desperate, but eventually she takes him seriously. He gives her the address and then she forces him to disconnect, but promises to let him know if there’s anything to report.

“What’s wrong?” Dustin asks, looking completely sober now. “Why did you send the police to Wardo’s place?”

Mark jumps a little when he hears his voice. He’s completely forgotten that there are other people in the room, that maybe other people care about Wardo as well -- which is idiotic, because of course other people care about Wardo, at least Dustin and Chris do. He’s not so sure about Sean.  “I need to be on the next flight to New York,” he informs Dustin and leaves it at that. Wardo can explain the rest later.

\---

Wardo can’t explain anything, Mark finds out once he’s touched ground in JFK and is allowed to use his cellphone again.

He stops dead in his tracks in the middle of baggage claim (not that he has any baggage to begin with, only the clothes he’s wearing, his wallet and his cell), because he doesn’t understand what his voicemail is telling him.

It sounds remarkably like _stab wounds_ and _emergency room_ and _prognosis unclear_.

For a moment he forgets what he’s supposed to do. If breathing is a natural occurrence or something he can live without, if (a+b)*(a-b) really makes a² - b², if it’s bad that he can’t name the exact number of Facebook users at this particular moment in time.

Somebody brushes past him and that brings him back to the real world. It feels like a cold shower at six in the morning. Like the ones Wardo made him take because he’d coded for two days straight and had a final in one hour. But there’s nobody waiting outside the door with a bagel in his hands and a strong cup of coffee, least of all Wardo. Usually, Mark has a plan, and if he hasn’t, then somebody else -- usually Wardo -- has one. He doesn’t know what to do now. He feels hollow and weirdly directionless. The path until here was clear, but New York is a big city and Mark has no idea how much distance he still has to cross between Wardo and him (it’s 2563 miles from Palo Alto to New York City, he knows, but it seems insignificantly small compared to where he is now). Finally, he does the only thing he can and listens to the voicemail again. It still stays the same, which is somewhat disappointing, but it also reveals the name of a hospital.

He winks a cab and ignores all the other voicemails.

\---

One day, Facebook is going to be big, it will have millions of users, and he will have made a fortune with it. He will be able to buy everything he wants, including this hospital, or at least its emergency room. There will be a golden plate next to the reception with his name on it but people won’t need to see a name tag to know who he is. Unfortunately, he’s not there yet.

“Who are you again, kiddo?” the receptionist asks.

“Mark Zuckerberg,” he repeats once again and wonders for a fleeting second if the guy only got the job because he couldn’t do anything else. “And I’m here for Eduardo Saverin. Dark hair, about this height,” he explains and raises his hand somewhere above his head. He has no idea how tall Wardo really is, only that it always felt like they were on eye level. “He was brought here with stab wounds.”

“And you’re relationship to him is … ?”

There are a lot of easier questions in the universe, and a whole lot more Mark would prefer to answer. Wardo is his best friend, the last person to yell at Mark, the one who made sure he went to all his finals, the person who believed in his idea and gave him money to start it all, the person he was angry with this very day. “I’m his friend,” he finally settles on.

“As in _boy_ friend?” Another bored question, which completely throws him off his game, because that’s the part of the universe full of questions he tries to steer clear of. It’s complicated and has a lot more 1’s and 0’s than he’s comfortable with. On the other hand, if he’s only a friend, they probably wouldn’t tell him anything about Wardo. He doesn’t think he can survive that (he doesn’t think about the other possibility -- that there’s nothing to survive, because Wardo’s already gone and the last thing Mark did was being angry with him).

“Yes,” he says, because what’s a white lie compared to the feeling of not knowing? “We met in Harvard, and he is my business partner and -- “

“Do I look like I want to make a Lifetime movie out of your story?” says the receptionist and cuts off his rambling. “Go to the waiting room on the fourth floor. Your friend is in the OR.”

“Thanks,” he remembers to say (because Wardo is always polite and has better things to do right now but to apologize if Mark is rude) and turns to go.

“Don’t expect any miracles, kiddo. He looked pretty bad, that friend of yours,” the receptionist adds. It even sounds somewhat compassionate, which makes it even weirder. As if it helps Mark any to know he’s probably never going to see Wardo again. He’s tempted to say _thanks_ again, but only because he has no idea how to react otherwise. He doesn’t need to do anything, though, because someone else claims the receptionist’s attention.

Mark makes it to the elevator and punches the button for the fourth floor. The door closes, he’s all alone and suddenly he longs for his computer. If this were code he’d knew what to expect. Code-writing gives him the results he wants, and if it doesn’t, he sees it and can go back and fix it. There’s an action and a reaction, an endless circle he knows and understands. This, he doesn’t understand. Not why it happened, why somebody did that, why it happened to Wardo.

Nothing makes sense, and he wants code to rewrite it.

\---

Time, Mark slowly realizes, is an utter bastard.

He had needed approximately half a minute to realize something’s wrong after his call to Wardo had been disconnected, twenty seconds to get into the house and push Dustin away from the computer, a minute and ten seconds to locate Wardo’s cellphone (which has nothing to do with his skills, but all with the permanent problem that the connection speed isn’t as fast as Mark’s brain), seven ridiculous minutes to convince the lady that Wardo indeed needed help, another seven minutes to get a plane ticket and call a taxi, half an hour for the drive to San Francisco International Airport -- where he had to wait one hour and four minutes till his flight took off, wasted five hours and thirty minutes with actual flight time, three minutes in baggage claim when he didn’t know what to do, and fifty minutes for the taxi drive to the hospital.

Which -- all in all -- make about nine hours and thirteen minutes since he’s last heard Wardo’s voice. You’d think Wardo’s waited long enough to talk to Mark again. Or at least get out of surgery. Neither of these two things have happened so far, and the seats in the waiting room may actually be comfy, but still -- he has nothing to take his mind off these ominous green doors at the other end of the room, and he’s not good at waiting. Never has been, because he simply doesn’t wait. There’s always something to do. Talk, write, sleep, but never wait. Waiting is for people who have nothing to do, who have no aim, but not for him (He’d rather not think about all the time Wardo spent waiting for him to finish coding, finish eating, finish _thinking_ , because Wardo is not one of these people without any goals in their life).

“Anyone here for Eduardo Saverin?” somebody finally asks coming through these green doors, and Mark jumps to his feet.

“I’m here for him.”

The doctor walks to him with sleepy eyes, and Mark really hopes the guy was more awake during surgery. “And you are?” the doctor asks.

“His boyfriend, Mark.” The lie is easier the second time, feels somewhat light on his tongue, even though he actively tells it this time.

“Huh, his _boy_ friend?” The man repeats and raises an eyebrow. Mark doesn’t understand why anyone would question that right now. Okay, so he maybe doesn’t look the type, but surely it’s not such a stretch of imagination to see him together with -- “See, I was told he got stabbed by his _girl_ friend.”

And that’s information that catches him off guard, and he thinks his brain just shuts down for a minute or so, because Christy? She hasn’t played any role in his thoughts about the _why_ and _how_ and _who_. Christy is just … Christy. She’s there on the edge of his vision and intellectually he knows that she is (or better was, with the recent developments) Wardo’s girlfriend, but she’s never been important. Not in a way that threatens to change his whole universe the way it does now.

“Christy … Christy did that?” he finally gets out, still not fully understanding what this means exactly.

“If that’s her name.”

“But I’m his friend,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to say, because he needs to know if Wardo has waited yet again for him. “We met in Harvard, and he’s my business partner and … “ And then he does something he never does. “Please.”

The doctor looks at him for an agonizingly long moment (and again time, the meddling bastard, Mark thinks), but finally he nods. Mark’s not sure if the guy found something in his face or in his eyes or if there even was something to find other than barely concealed desperation, but he doesn’t care. “He’s alive,” the doctor says and is smart enough to pause after this, because Mark may need a second or so to feel his legs again. “He was in pretty bad shape when they brought him in, but she missed his spinal cord and we could repair the damage. We’ll have to watch his kidney function, but I’m tentatively optimistic that he will make a full recovery given time.” The guy still looks at him as if he expects something from him, maybe unicorns and rainbows in a basket. Mark has no idea.

“I want to see him,” he says and remembers too late that maybe a _thank you_ would have been in order before he demands anything (Wardo would have remembered, he thinks).

“Not yet, only family in the ICU -- speaking of which, have they been informed?”

He probably looks like a deer caught in the headlights, because that’s another thought that hasn’t crossed his mind. “Not yet,” he says slowly.

“Then call them. And go and change, sleep. Your friend won’t get out of ICU before tomorrow.” The doctor turns and leaves Mark alone in the waiting room in which the real important things only happen behind the green doors. It’s endlessly frustrating and he slumps down on one of the comfy chairs again. He can’t go, because there’s nowhere to go. He knows exactly two people in New York City and one of them is a violent lunatic and the other one he’s not allowed to see. And he can’t change, because he has nothing to change into. He presumes he could just buy stuff, but it seems too much like an effort and the irrational part of his brain doesn’t want to leave Wardo, whether he can see him or not.

Which brings him to the only thing he _can_ do -- calling Wardo’s parents, although he’s not really sure Wardo would even appreciate his parents at his bedside. His mom, probably, but his dad is a whole other story. A story Mark never got to read all the chapters to, probably only some excerpts here and there -- most prominently a bruise on Wardo’s chin after Thanksgiving break last year (Which they never talked about. But just because Mark doesn’t recite everything he sees, doesn’t mean he sees nothing at all).

He sighs and gets his cellphone out of his pocket. He needs to call Dustin and Chris and get them to find out the number of Wardo’s parents.

\---

It’s four o’clock in the afternoon and Mark is a lot of things -- hungry, tired, thirsty, but mostly he’s just pissed. You’d think if your son just got stabbed in the back by his crazy ex-girlfriend you’d be on the next plane to JFK or just take your fucking private jet, but no, not when you’re called Mr and Mrs. Saverin. It took Mark two hours (after Dustin and Chris had finished simultaneously yelling at him for not calling earlier) to find out their number (Wardo’s random remark about how they moved from Brazil to Miami to evade hostage threats gets a whole new level of meaning) and another just to get Mrs. Saverin’s PA to listen and not just hang up on him. It’s ridiculous, but he only throws the cell on one of the chairs in the waiting room after he has the promise from the PA to book Wardo’s mom a seat on the next _convenient_ (no, not the _next_ one) flight to New York City. No word on Wardo’s dad, but it’s more a relief than anything else to Mark.

The waiting room is empty except for him, which he is thankful for, because he really doesn’t need any more stupid people in his life right now. On the other hand, it serves perfectly to illustrate how lonely he is at the moment, and how useless -- which is a shitty feeling, but he’s neither a surgeon, nor a nurse or even remotely someone who would know what to do with Wardo.

But he’s a genius, or as close as you can get to it, and he’s fed up with waiting around and feeling useless, so he goes and searches for the ICU. It’s pretty easy to find, with all the neon signs pointing to the right direction, as if somebody wanted him to end up there. It’s not a pretty place, though. The lights are brighter than the ones in the waiting room, it smells differently (and not in a good way, he’s reminded of the way his grandma’s hospital room smelled three days before her death), and there are people -- albeit only two, who vanish to do whatever they do the moment he enters the main room of the ICU. If they make it that easy, he thinks, than it’s a sign that he has to visit Wardo. Not that he believes in signs in general, but Dustin would say something as idiotic as _The force is on your side, my son_ and for once Mark wouldn’t mind. He looks into three cubicles (one old man, one middle-aged woman, and a guy his age who looks as if he’s missing half his leg) before he finds Wardo. He sits down on a chair next to the bed and the nurses will only spot him when they’re standing right next to the cubicle. It’s only then that he allows himself to register what he actually sees.

The receptionist wasn’t kidding when he said Wardo had looked pretty bad. If possible, he looks worse now (at least worse than Mark had imagined). There are a lot of wires and tubes, so much that Mark is afraid to touch (not that he really likes touching, but Wardo seems. fond of it, and if now isn’t the time to leave Mark’s own issues behind he doesn’t know) when is. A nasal cannula is feeding oxygen to Wardo and he’s still -- which is not a weird idea per se, because Wardo can do still with the best of them. He always knows when to sit quietly on the couch reading a book and leave Mark to his coding. It’s just that he usually has a lot more color to his face than right now.

“I called your mom,” he whispers (and that’s what you do in ICU, you act paradoxically, because you whisper as not to disturb anyone, but on the other hand they tell you to talk to the patients -- even if they can’t hear you), “well, I talked to her PA. I’m not sure, but she said your mom would get the … um … next flight.” He stops for a while to see if he got any reaction and tries not to be too disappointed when there’s none. “Anyway, I don’t think you really need her, but she’s your mom after all. And probably everyone is better than your father, right?” He shrugs. “Also, you’ve probably noticed that I’m here -- surprise -- but you hung up on me, at least that’s what I thought then, now I think it was presumably Christy, but I needed to check if you’re still talking to me. Which you aren’t right now, but I don’t blame you for that, just so you know. Back to Christy, but she shouldn’t concern you right now, because she got arrested for what she did to … “ He waves with his hand in the general direction of Wardo, stops in midair and rests it on his thigh again. Wardo can’t see him after all. He sighs and scrubs his hand over his tired eyes. “This is probably the stupidest thing we’ve both been present for, and I saw you feeding a chicken for a week. Where is it, anyway? Did you eat it?”

“’Ark?” It’s barely a whisper, it’s barely _there_ , but Mark knows he’s not hearing things when Wardo blinks at him, confusion written all over his face.

“Thank God,” he breathes and leans a bit closer so Wardo can see him. He doesn’t say _I was worried about you_ , because that’s a given and he was never one for stating the obvious.

“What are you doing here?” Wardo asks quietly and his eyes start to slip close again (and Mark doesn’t panic, because that’s a normal reaction after the anesthesia and the pain meds and doesn’t mean that Wardo won’t wake up again).

“I’m … “ Mark trails off, since it should be obvious, shouldn’t it? He’s here because he’s Wardo’s friend, because Wardo had hung up on him, because Wardo got stabbed and where else should Mark be now if not here? “I thought it was a good idea.”

Wardo slowly blinks at him, and Mark starts to think he’s not going to say anything else. “Thought I had gotten left behind.”

Wardo’s asleep the next second, but Mark still feels sucker-punched.

\---

He only realizes that he’s fallen asleep when somebody shakes his shoulder and scowls at him. “Who are you and what are you doing in the ICU without permission?” the nurse asks him angrily. It takes him a while to get rid of the memories of his dream (a laughing Wardo and a few drinks shared between them -- congratulations to his subconsciousness for being extra unsubtle), and he sleepily blinks at the nurse.

“What?” he asks with a yawn and looks over to Wardo, who blissfully sleeps on.

“I’m asking what you’re doing here?” the nurse repeats, still looking furious.

“Well, I _could_ be proving how horrible the security in this hospital is and advise my boyfriend here to sue you, but I’m actually just making sure he’s still here, with your lax security and so.”

There’s a soft chuckle that stops the nurse from throwing Mark out the room, because now she’s more concerned with the fact that Wardo’s awake. She’s bustling around him, checking what feels like a hundred readings, and Mark can’t help but hold his breath (he’s not afraid, because Wardo’s awake and he chuckled) until she nods with a light smile and leaves to get the doctor.

“How are you feeling?” Mark asks, and earns another light chuckle (must be the pain meds).

“Left your brain in Palo Alto, hmm?” Wardo says, but there’s no real heat in his hoarse voice. He makes a slight wave with his hand to all the machines surrounding him. “Take a wild guess.”

“Sorry,” Mark says and sits down in the vacated chair next to Wardo’s bed. He fidgets a bit with his clothes and hopes that Wardo can’t smell them over the antiseptic. It takes him a moment to notice that silence is filling the room and he looks over to Wardo worriedly -- and Wardo looks at him like Mark has spaghetti sauce on his cheek (which he hasn’t, because the last thing he ate was … he can’t really remember, but he better not tell this to Wardo). “What? You okay? I mean, are you in pain -- shit, no, let me rephrase that -- should I get the nurse?”

“No,” Wardo breathes, “just … you never before said … “

“Yes?”

But he doesn’t get an answer, because a doctor and some nurses come in and he’s ushered out of the room -- which is not a good thing because it gives him time to _think_. He thinks about Wardo’s words before he fell asleep and the feelings they dragged back into broad daylight, about how he has no idea if Wardo even wants him here (but he has to stay, right? Because Wardo’s dad won’t come and Mark doesn’t trust a woman who’ll take the next _convenient_ flight) and maybe he should ask him (but he’s afraid of the answer). He thinks about what he says and doesn’t say and how that affects Wardo (and only him. Mark doesn’t care much if other people can’t handle the truth he’s telling) and if he had listened to Wardo telling him that Christy frightens him, maybe none of this would have happened. It’s a lot to think about and his brain is running on crappy coffee and next to nothing to eat, and he really wishes he could find the switch off for his mind.

“Mark, right?” The doctor suddenly stands in front of him and startled, Mark takes a step back. Only now does he recognize him as the surgeon from the waiting room who told him he couldn’t get into the ICU.

“Yes,” he says and tries to hide his fear. He doesn’t want to wait behind green doors again. “How is he?”

“Tired, but everything looks good so far. And he says he won’t sue us for lax security if we let his _boy_ friend back in.”

“Oh,” is all Mark can say and he breathes in relief as the doctor steps out of his way. Wardo looks half asleep again when Mark sits down on his recently vacated chair.

“You told them you’re my boyfriend?” Wardo murmurs.

Mark thinks Wardo really needs to stop saying these things when he’s asleep the next second and Mark has no chance at an explanation.


	2. Chapter 2

Somewhere, Mark read that newborns need up to fifteen hours of sleep. He’s not sure, but it feels like Wardo is trying to break that record (which isn’t fair, because Mark’s brain is going crazy with all these thoughts running around and he fears the only way this will stop is when he talks to Wardo). The nurse tells him it’s normal and that he stinks (she’s still not happy with him being allowed in the ICU). Mark grimaces, because his clothes really start to feel itchy on his skin.

“But I don’t want him to -- “

“He won’t wake up again in the next few hours,” she says and sighs. Her voice is softer when she continues. “Listen, you don’t help him when you’re asleep on your feet and your dirty clothes are probably a perfect breeding ground for any kind of bacteria his body isn’t up to fighting right now.”

She’s right (and he hates her a bit for it), and he probably should call Dustin and Chris again to let them know that Wardo was awake for a while (it occurs to him that he hasn’t thought about Facebook for more than twenty-four hours, but it’s only a passing astonishment). He wants to ignore her obvious dismissal, but he finds that he can’t. He _is_ tired, after all, and he can’t remember the last time he had a shower, and he doesn’t want Wardo to wake up for real and send him out of his room because he reeks.

It still takes him an unusually long time to leave the ICU (and when he walks out, he remembers that part of the universe he doesn’t like dwelling on -- it suddenly seems more vibrant).

\---

Five hours and twenty three minutes later, Mark is back. He has checked into a hotel nearby, showered, eaten, bought some new clothes, he has drunk something besides Red Bull and coffee (Wardo would be proud of him) and has slept for an hour. Somehow, he has also  found the time to argue with Chris and Dustin that they don’t need to fly all the way to New York City (god, he had been so tempted to leave this whole mess to them, but it had felt like chickening out and that’s something Wardo doesn’t deserve). Now he’s back and walks straight into Mrs. Saverin. He only recognizes her because she’s standing right outside Wardo’s cubicle, her hair pulled back into a tight knot (it has the same color as Wardo’s) and her whole posture rigid. Mark only knows her from the few photos Wardo keeps in his dorm, he’s never met her in person before and he wishes for Chris and Dustin instead.

“You must be Mark,” she suddenly says without taking her eyes from the curtain parting her from her son, and he jumps a bit.

“Yes, I am,” he confirms and really hopes that nobody told her that he’s Wardo’s supposed boyfriend. He doesn’t think it would go over so well. She still doesn’t look at him and it creeps him out a bit.

“He talks about you a lot, you know.” She straightens imaginary wrinkles out of her business dress. “And about that company of yours. Is it still developing as well as you hoped?”

“Even better,” he replies and tries not to gape at her. This feels incredibly surreal -- like five days of straight coding and drinking a whole swimming pool of Red Bull. She makes no move to go a step further towards Wardo’s bed and suddenly Mark’s stomach takes a plummet, because surely she wants to see Wardo, right? And if she’s not moving then because there’s nobody to see anymore and -- he gulps and his heart beats a mile a minute. Before he knows it, he has sidestepped the curtain and his legs nearly give way when Wardo blinks at him (Mark’s going to poison this nurse’s coffee for telling him Wardo won’t be awake until he’s back).

“Thank God,” Mark says and probably sounds like a broken record by now. “Your mom is waiting behind the -- “ he whispers and points at the curtain. This feels ridiculous.

“Oh,” Wardo says and actually tries to sit upright (later, Mark will yell at him for being stupid, but not right now). It doesn’t work out quite so well, because some monitors start to blare and then Wardo grimaces and Mark doesn’t know what to touch without hurting him further. Finally, he settles for Wardo’s shoulders and helps him sink back onto the bed.

“Don’t do that,” Mark chides him, once he feels like his voice won’t break.

“Sorry,” Wardo mumbles and then the nurse comes (Mark glares at her for lying to him), checks all the monitors again, glares right back at Mark, and leaves. And then Wardo’s mom comes around the curtain, smiling tightly and taking the seat that’s usually Mark’s.

“Hello, Eduardo,” she says and touches Wardo’s arm for a second. It’s only then that Mark realizes he still has his hand on Wardo’s shoulder, and he withdraws it (He probably imagines the short glance Wardo shoots at him).

“Hello, mãe,” Wardo says and smiles at her.

“How are you?”

“’I’m fine, and you didn’t have to come, really. I already -- “

“Unfortunately, your father couldn’t come. He has important business in Brazil to attend to,” she talks on as if Wardo hadn’t said anything, like she’s reading from a script she wants to finish as fast as possible. Behind his back, Mark balls his hands into fists. “I’ve talked to the hospital administration and as soon as you can leave … here,” she glances around her as if not talking about the ICU makes it anything less real, “you’ll have your private room.”

“Thank you, mãe,” Wardo says quietly.

“I don’t want to tire you out, so I better leave now. If you need anything, the nurses have the number of my hotel room.” She hesitates for a moment, but then she bends down and gives Wardo a light kiss on the cheek and nods at Mark before she leaves. Mark stares after her and can’t decide if he wants to yell at her to come back or to demand she stays away.

“You,” Wardo coughs slightly, “you don’t need to stay either.” He doesn’t meet Mark’s eyes and plays with a loose thread of the blanket.

“I’m not your mother.”

“What?”

“You don’t have to lie to me.”

“I’m not lying.” Wardo scowls, because he hates to be called a liar (and usually he doesn’t lie).

“But you’re not fine!” Mark replies and tries really hard not to raise his voice, but it all pours out of him like one giant levee just broke (and he can’t stop and it all comes out _oh_ so wrong). “Christy _stabbed_ you, for god’s sake! She stabbed you and then she left you to bleed to death in some shitty apartment in Manhattan. And I had to fly here on a moment’s notice and you lost so much blood that the receptionist told me I shouldn’t expect any miracles, which basically meant I should have started to arrange your funeral. And then I had to get a hotel room and buy new clothes because I didn’t bring any and you just wouldn’t wake up again -- so don’t tell me you’re _fine_.”

Wardo’s face is white as a sheet and his knuckles are grabbing the blanket. His lips are set in a firm line and his browns furrowed. “Excuse me for causing such an inconvenience to your life and your work on Facebook, and sorry for waking up the exact moment you weren’t by my side.” He grits his teeth. “And since you apparently know my feelings so well, you probably know that I want to be alone right now.”

“What? No --”

“Leave.”

“Wardo -- ”

“Leave.” Wardo repeats, this time with more force. Mark stares at him for a long moment, but Wardo doesn’t budge.

“Okay … okay,” Mark finally says. And leaves.

\---

Leaving sucks even more than waiting. And talking sucks more than being quiet, because talking only ever gets him into trouble, even if he has the best intentions. Mark runs a hand over his tired face, sighs and ignores the quizzical look the nurse shoots him when he leaves the ICU.

He doesn’t know what to do (again) and it gets to him in a way only wrong coding does normally. He has no idea why he said the things he said, or better, he has no idea why he said them the way he did. Well, he has his suspicions (fear and worry and _I wouldn’t know what to do without him_ ), but he isn’t ready yet to actually admit this. Emotions have always been a minefield to him. But that’s something Wardo had always taken in stride. He had smiled at Mark’s brusque manners and patted him on the shoulders when he tried to explain what he had really meant (he never wanted to hurt Wardo). And now Wardo’s in _there_ and Mark is standing outside _here_ and he feels lost.

“Shit,” he murmurs and decides to give Wardo some time, because he won’t leave Wardo alone (not with a woman who’s as distant as he didn’t dare to imagine; he refuses to believe he’s that kind of friend), but he will come back and maybe he’ll find the right words before then. He decides to buy a notepad in the hospital shop (he’s always been better with written things he can change and form until they look right not only to him) and settles in the cafeteria for a while.

\---

He’s written half a page and crossed out everything ( _I care, I’m scared, I would never leave you behind_ ) but “I’m sorry”. It still seems too little, but it’s the only thing he feels to be appropriate.

“Mr Zuckerberg to the ICU, please. Mr Zuckerberg to the ICU, please.”

He simply stops. Stops writing, stops whipping his left foot, stops breathing. This can’t be. The voice coming out of the loudspeakers can’t mean him, because that doesn’t bode well for Wardo’s health. Mark feels sick and for a moment or two, and he debates just leaving. If Wardo died because they missed a ruptured blood vessel he doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want to _see_. He can walk out of this hospital, hide behind a laptop, forever wired in and he will never have to face the truth of a world without (his best friend, sometimes his only friend, his maybe-it’s-something-more-but-I-don’t-want-to-think-about-it) Wardo.

Before he knows it he’s crossed the threshold of the ICU, ignored the nurse gesturing at him and has drawn the curtain aside.

“Shit, sorry, god, I’m so sorry, you look like death,” Wardo says in a rush, his eyes wide (and he’s probably right, because Mark feels dead right now). “I told her to say it’s not an emergency, but I think she maybe hates you a bit.”

Mark doesn’t say anything. He simply collapses into the chair next to Wardo’s bed.

“Mark? Come on, I’m really sorry. I’d have called your cell, but I don’t know where mine is and the nurse wouldn’t give me a telephone, but I convinced her to ask for you … shit, Mark? Please, say something.”

“It came out all wrong,” he finally whispers. His skin feels bathed in cold sweat.

“What?” Wardo leans a bit to his side and tries to reach for the sleeve of Mark’s hoodie. Wardo likes touch, a still functioning part of Mark’s brain tells him, and he moves a bit so Wardo can grab the fabric and hold onto it.

“Before … I didn’t want to sound so accusatory. I don’t blame you for any of this,” Mark says. He thinks back to the notepad he left lying around on the table in the cafeteria, to all the crossed out sentences. “I am … “ he swallows dry, “I’m scared.”

“I’m sorry I told you to leave, sorry that I scared you,” Wardo says quietly and if that’s not irony, then Mark doesn’t know. He suppresses a snort. Of course Wardo would never really want him to leave (it’s only Mark who says stuff like that), the same way he never really expects an apology from Mark, but is always ready to apologize himself. “It’s just … it’s difficult, you know? With my mom. She’s not … she’s a nice person, really, and she does care in her own way … she’s just selective about what she wants to see and know, what she can _bear_ to see and know. And I can’t switch it on and off when she’s around.” He looks at his hand on Mark’s sleeve and stops, as if he’s already told too much and Mark is going to bunk off any second now (he isn’t, but he still wants to yell at Wardo’s mom for ignoring what’s going on between him and his father). “And you are … you’re right … I’m not fine. And I don’t want you to leave, even if that sounds selfish.” He lets his hand sink down onto the blanket, and Mark instantly misses the touch.

“It’s not selfish. And even if it were, I wouldn’t care.”

Wardo gives a slight chuckle and looks at him again. “Not so much for social conventions, are you?”

“You know me,” Mark answers with a shrug and tries a smile. He’s rewarded by a small smile from Wardo (it makes him feel better).

“Yes,” Wardo whispers and there’s this soft look in his tired eyes, “I know you.”

And Mark has no idea why he does it, but he settles one hand on Wardo’s on the blanket. His heart beats a mile a minute and he feels sweaty, but Wardo doesn’t draw his hand away, just stares at him silently.

“Mark?” Wardo asks, a slight hitch in his voice.

“I’m not leaving, Wardo,” he answers ( _never_ , he thinks, not if you don’t send me away).

“Thanks,” Wardo says and his eyes slip close again.

\---

Mark wonders if Wardo will remember any of this later, when he’s not half-high on pain meds. If he’ll ask about this boyfriend-thing (Mark had wanted to write the explanation down on the notepad, but nothing had come to mind he was ready to talk about) or if he still thinks Mark is going to leave him behind. He doesn’t understand why that’s the only part of their talk Wardo still remembers and if he simply chose to ignore the rest ( _I want you -- I need you out here_ ), the other part Mark had so much trouble getting out, he burrowed it under layers of different topics. Something went wrong in that corridor in the middle of booze and drugs and code, a breakdown in communication which they’re still not done with.

None of it matters now, though, not when Wardo’s face scrunches up and he moves his head from one side to the other (he realizes that he’s never seen Wardo sleep in a bed before -- he’s only seen Wardo sleeping when he’d crashed still in his clothes on their dorm couch after a night of video games or studying). “Wardo,” he says quietly and rubs his thumb over the skin of Wardo’s hand (he never let go). “Wardo,” he says again, louder, and this time Wardo reacts -- only it’s not in the way Mark had intended. Instead of settling once again into a peaceful slumber, Wardo wakes up with a gasp and draws his hand away from Mark. He freezes for a moment, until he seems to recognize Mark and visibly deflates.  

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

“You okay?”

 “Yeah … “ Wardo looks at Mark and swallows. “No, not really … nightmare.”

“Christy?” Mark asks and bites his tongue when Wardo flinches at the mention of her name.

“Yeah … do you know … I mean, if she’s … where is she?”

“Under arrest,” Mark says (he knows because he made Chris check, but for all he cares she can rot in hell for eternity). “She’ll go to trial for aggravated battery and attempted murder.” Too much information, he thinks, when Eduardo pales even more. “Sorry, I probably should have paraphrased that.”

“No … it’s … holy shit.” Wardo takes deep breath. “Hey, is that my lunch?” he asks (and it’s the least smoothest change of topic Mark has ever seen him make, but he doesn’t point it out because Wardo deserves a respite).

“It is. Well, actually it’s dinner, you slept through lunch.”

“Oh … did you eat it?”

“Er … “ Mark doesn’t want to lie, but he can’t really remember. The last hours (days, his brain nicely supplies) have been a blur. “Don’t think so.”

“Then you should eat it, get something in your stomach. You’ve probably been drinking only coffee and Red Bull since you’re here. You need to eat more.”

“And you’re bordering on underweight,” Mark replies and wants to take it back the next moment (so much for too much information).

“Excuse me?”

“I read your medical file. You weigh 143,4 lb., with your height that means a BMI of 19 -- that’s borderline underweight. So you should be the one to eat more.”

“Jesus … ”

“This means I’ll be the one to make sure you eat something for once. Here,” he moves the tablet with dinner so it’s within Wardo’s reach.

“I’m not really hungry.”

“We can share, deal?”

Wardo tilts his head. “How did you get my medical file, anyway?”

“It’s on the foot of your bed,” he says and points at it. “I needed to know if they were withholding important information.”

“And did they?”

“No,” he says clipped (2 stabs wounds to the left flank, first one at L-2, 4 centimeters off the midline, second one in the mid-scapular line, no injuries to the spinal cord, monitor for AKIN -- he will need access to a computer or a telephone to make sense of this. Otherwise it just will keep being written in ink and scare the shit out of him).

“Well … good,” Wardo says and there’s a smile half-formed on his lips when he grabs a bit of the white bread. “After all, you’re my boyfriend.”

Mark just knows his eyes have gone comically wide and he stops halfway reaching for the yogurt (Wardo doesn’t like cherry-flavor). “Er … about that,” he begins and stops, because he still hasn’t come up with a good enough explanation for this.

“I get it, man,” Wardo says, quietly this time. “You had to make something up so they’d give you the info. I’d have done the same thing.”

And that’s a nice and uncomplicated explanation, and in a way it’s totally true (because Mark would have said he’s the emperor of China if it had gotten him anywhere near Wardo) -- only that deep down Mark knows that it’s only half the story. He coughs and grabs the yogurt. “Of course, that’s why I did it.”

For a second there Wardo looks as if he’s expected another explanation, but then it’s gone and was probably only a trick of light anyway. “Yeah,” Wardo breathes. “You only pretended.”

\---

Dinner is awkward after that and for the life of him Mark can’t figure out why. He’s aware that he’s not the best person to deal with what’s going on right now, but he thought he had done a decent enough job so far -- apparently he is wrong. Wardo eats a slice of the white bread and a banana, and if it weren’t for the regular beeping of all the monitors the silence would be deafening.

“You probably should go to your hotel … and get some sleep. I mean, when was the last time you got a decent night’s sleep?” Wardo finally asks.

Mark thinks Wardo tries very hard not to make it sound like a dismissal -- it still hurts (and he’s not going to think about the last time Wardo sent him away, that hurts too). “You want me gone?”

“No -- yes. You need sleep, even if you think you don’t. I don’t want you to _leave_ , okay? I just want to you to sleep somewhere else but in a chair.”

And okay, that’s reasonable, but Mark has gone days without sleep coding Facebook (he still doesn’t feel the urge to check in on how it’s going, he thinks briefly). “But I don’t -- “

“Please, Mark,” Wardo says. “Wait … you do have a hotel room, right? Shit, I froze the account -- can you even afford a hotel? How did you pay for the plane ticket? I’ll call my mom and get her to --” Wardo sounds horrified and the beeping of the monitors starts to pick up in pace.

“No, stop, Wardo,” Mark says and wraps his hand around Wardo’s wrist. “Thiel made an angel investment of half a million. We don’t need your money.”

“You don’t … ” Wardo bites his lips and looks away. “Half a million … Jesus Christ.”

“Yes, I paid the flight and the hotel from it -- We did it, Wardo. We did it.”

“Yeah … we did it,” Wardo says and closes his eyes for a moment. “But that still doesn’t mean that you don’t have to sleep.” He looks at Mark again, and Mark doesn’t understand why he doesn’t seem happier. They fucking _did_ it (and no, he still doesn’t want to leave, no matter how much money they have.  Money has never been important to him). Wardo looks as if he knows something Mark has no clue about, and he gently loosens Mark’s grip on his wrist. “You … you don’t have to be scared. I’ll be here when you come back tomorrow. I promise.”

“Oh … okay.” For a second there he doesn’t know what to do until he finally stands up. “See you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, yes,” Wardo says and waves at him, but it feels forced and Mark still can’t wrap his head around it when he leaves. It’s dark and cold outside and he’s wearing flip-flops, but he doesn’t mind. The cold wakes him up again (he never actually promised to sleep, right?) and he enters the next internet café he can find (he really should have brought his laptop). He orders coffee, tries not to swear about the hardware, and starts searching.

He really shouldn’t have done that, he thinks when the clock reads two a.m. and he’s on his sixth (or seventh?) coffee. The internet is a bottomless pool feeding his fears and insecurities and he finds entirely too much (victim help sites, medical databases, witness accounts, court decisions, even video footage from a tv show). He learns a lot he wasn’t really aware of (what sticks is how much it had to _hurt_ to get stabbed with a knife -- twice -- endless, pure agony while Wardo slowly bled out not knowing when help would come -- if it would come at all).

He thinks he must look like hell, eyes all bloodshot and pale, when he pays for his coffee and makes it to the hotel. He stops once the door to his room is closed behind him, stops the way he did after the loudspeaker in the cafeteria had announced that Wardo had died (it hadn’t, but he had felt that way). This -- all of this -- he doesn’t know how to deal with this.

Things have been wrong since the corridor, and he tries to set them straight, but he just knows he’s failing spectacularly. He knows because something’s off in the way Wardo looks at him, talks to him, but everything Mark says only makes it worse and he hates that, hates that he can’t write code to change everything, to erase Christy and _You’ll get left behind_ , instead he’d bold _I need you_ , so Wardo simply _can’t_ overlook it. And then he’s crying all of a sudden, and the tears on his cheeks are an odd feeling (he hasn’t cried in years), and it hurts that he doesn’t know how to make everything better and that code won’t help (but tears don’t help either). He sits down on his bed and lets himself cry (he wonders if Wardo had cried -- God, he’d been all alone and the last thing Mark had done was to yell at him -- he feels sick).

He has no idea how long he sits there, but sometime when his cheeks feel dry again and he thinks he may have sand in his eyes, the phone in his jeans pocket vibrates.

go 2 sleep, need u awake tmrw, nurse said I’d have 2 walk. W

He falls onto the bed, gets rid of his shoes and feels better than he’s been all day (Wardo still cares, he thinks. Whatever happened between them, Wardo still cares enough to send him to bed).

Why’re u still awake? How did u get ur cell?

Charmed the n8 nurse & b/c sb has to make sure u sleep. Btw, private room tmrw! W

He actually laughs when he reads this message, because of course if anybody is able to charm anybody’s pants off it would be Wardo with his easy-going smile and big eyes. Mark’s still smiling when he draws the blanket over himself.

Gonna sleep now. Promise. Sleep well he texts back.

U 2, Mark. W

He has the phone still in his hands when he falls into a dreamless sleep.

\---

Mark likes the night nurse way better than the one from the day before (and yes, he is that early that it’s still the night nurse). She smiles at him when he enters ICU and pointedly ignores the bag from the bagel shop he carries with him (Wardo likes bagels and Mark will make sure he eats at least one). He also likes the way Wardo smiles at him, because it feels honest and he’s genuinely excited for the bagels.

“Thanks, Mark,” he says and takes another bite. “But are you okay? You look … ” He frowns. “You did sleep tonight, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did sleep. I promised you, remember?” Mark reminds him and rolls with his eyes.

“Yes, you did. And don’t think I didn’t see you rolling your eyes.” Wardo laughs and throws crumbs at Mark (Mark feels like the night Facebook went online and he has to look away because he’s scared his face gives him away).

They eat every last one of the bagels and drink the smoothies Mark also bought because Wardo is ridiculously fond of the one with mangoes and passion fruit (yes, Mark does notice stuff like this). For a while Mark even forgets where they have this impromptu breakfast, but then a doctor comes in and Mark is sent out of the room again. He begins to hate that, because he’s always scared that they will come back and tell him that there’s a problem and he isn’t allowed to see Wardo right now. He draws a deep breath and thinks of code to calm his nerves.

“But only to the doors of the ICU, okay? We don’t want you to overexert yourself,” the doctor says, half to Wardo and half to Mark who’s waiting outside. Mark nods quietly, but doesn’t wait for an answer before he gets back inside the room. Wardo is still there (of course he is, he chides his brain, but his legs still feel shaky to see Wardo), but he looks worse than ten minutes ago.

“Wardo?” He asks hesitantly, about to shout for the doctor to come back, but Wardo’s raised hand stops him.

“Gimme a minute,” Wardo says with downcast eyes and Mark isn’t sure, but he thinks Wardo tries to blink away tears. “He had to look at my … ” He takes a gulp of air, “my back … hurts.”

“Oh … okay … you want me to get the nurse? The doctor? Someone should probably give you something for the pain. And maybe we shouldn’t do the walking thing today, not if you look like this already. Wardo? Can you please … please talk to me? You’re scaring me here,” Mark says and nearly stumbles over his words, he talks so fast. He’s not sure Wardo understood any of it, but it doesn’t matter because Wardo grabs his hand and if it’s that what Wardo needs (and of course, _touch_ , Mark should have known) then Mark will shut up and let Wardo squeeze his hand.

It takes a few minutes, but eventually Wardo releases his grip on Mark’s hand and takes a deep breath. “Shit,” he mutters and wipes his arm over his face. Mark wants to tell him that he doesn’t have to hide because his mom isn’t here, but he keeps quiet. “You know,” Wardo says and his voice sounds shaky, “suddenly the door looks further away than I’d thought.”

“You don’t have to walk -- “

“Don’t tell me you didn’t do a ton of research on this and stumbled across the fact that I could get pneumonia if I don’t start walking around soon,” Wardo interrupts him and tilts his head. Mark closes his mouth again, because yes, he did read that last night. Something about fluids in the lungs. “So I have to grin and bear it, because this sucks -- but I think this and pneumonia on top of it sucks even more,” Wardo says and fails big time at a grin. And of course Wardo is right. It doesn’t mean that Mark has to like it to see him in pain, though.

“But we can wait, okay? You don’t have to walk to the door in the next ten minutes,” Mark says decidedly. And maybe sometimes Wardo needs to hear that he’s not required to do something, Mark thinks, because Wardo slowly nods and sinks back into the pillow.

“You don’t have to hold my hands through this, you know? I’m pretty sure they pay the nurses to watch out for me so I don’t fall the moment I’m on my feet,” Wardo says quietly.

There are several answers on the tip of Mark’s tongue, some of them sound entirely too honest ( _I want to hold your hand_ ), and some of them will be definitely misunderstood ( _I have nowhere else to be_ ), so he settles for the simple truth. “I’m not leaving, Wardo. And if you don’t remember that I already told you this before then I’m getting the doctor right now.”

“No, don’t. I do remember that you said that,” Wardo says in that soft voice of his. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” is what slips Marks tongue without any conscious thought, and he bites his lips because it sounds awful and he really doesn’t need a _thank you_ for being where he wants to be. But Wardo looks like he understands what Mark is really trying to say (like he does most of the times), and then Mark spends the next half hour distracting him with a story about the confused waitress in the bagel shop, who wanted to sell him a cherry smoothie instead the one with mango and passion fruit.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing here,” Wardo eventually says, but he’s smiling again, so Mark only shrugs with his shoulders.

“It worked, right?”

“Yeah … but still, I probably should get on my feet now. My mom wanted to stop by for lunch, and she’s going to expect me to be in my new room.”

Mark grinds his teeth, because that woman has absolutely no right to expect anything (he probably will never ever get over that _convenient_ flight), but he doesn’t say what he really thinks (no point in arguing with Wardo about it). Instead he gets the nurse (it’s still the night nurse) and tries not to look too shocked when he sees all the cables and tubes she has to disconnect so Wardo can get up.

“Ready?” The nurse asks and Wardo nods. “Okay, honey, but slow and steady, understood? And you?” She points at Mark. “Get on his other side and help him stand.”

Mark rushes to Wardo’s left side and grabs his elbow. “I’m here,” he babbles, completely forgetting that they have an audience, “I’m not going to let you fall.”

“Good to know,” Wardo says and draws a shaky breath before his feet touch the ground.

It’s probably the slowest and most awkward walk Mark has ever witnessed (and he’s seen one of his sisters learning to walk), and after Wardo makes five steps Mark is ready to call it a day, because Wardo is trembling next to him and looks white as a sheet.

“Maybe we shouldn’t -- ”

“No,” Wardo cuts him off, but also leans more on him. He sounds out of breath and Mark shoots worried glances to the nurse, but she ignores him for sixteen more steps (they’re not even halfway to the ICU doors) until Wardo stops. “I’m dizzy,” he says quietly and hangs his head.

“Okay, I’m getting the wheelchair. Just a moment, honey,” the nurse says and makes sure that Mark holds Wardo upright before she hurries off. Wardo has closed his eyes and he turns so that his forehead presses against the curve between Mark’s neck and shoulder.

“Fuck … I hate this,” he murmurs and Mark can feel his hot breath against his skin. It tugs at his heart that he can’t rewrite the world, can’t undo the hurt and pain, so he does the only thing he can do and closes his arms around Wardo. With anybody else he’d feel awkward, but with Wardo it feels natural.

“Everything’s going to be alright, I promise,” he whispers and strokes Wardo’s shivering back until the nurse gets back with the wheelchair.

\---

Half an hour later Wardo is settled in his new room, which shows off a sickening brown color scheme, but also has a nice view of the East River. Wardo doesn’t seem to be the slightest bit interested in any of it. He hasn’t talked to the nurse or Mark since they had to cut the walk short and it starts to make Mark nervous. Normally, he feels comfortable with silence, but this is not the easy silence he’s used to with Wardo.

“I … er … I can get us something for lunch later, if you want,” Mark finally says just for the sake of saying something.

“Did you tell the police where to find me?” Wardo asks as if he hasn’t heard a single word out of Mark’s mouth. His voice is flat and he doesn’t look at Mark (and he really wishes Wardo would stop that, because they’re friends and whatever he’s trying to hide he doesn’t have to hide from Mark).

“What?”

“I have a hard time imagining Christy calling 911, and I don’t think any of my neighbors heard us, which leaves you or chance … did you tell the police?”

“Yes,” Mark says slowly, not sure if they should talk about this, because Wardo doesn’t look like he really wants to know. “I heard … something … and then the call got disconnected.” And finally Wardo turns to him again and there’s something in his eyes that makes Mark hold his breath for a second.

“Why are you here, Mark?” Wardo asks quietly.

“I … what? I told you already,” Mark says and suddenly his hands are cold and he can feel his heartbeat in his throat.  

“Yeah,” Wardo huffs. “Seemed like a good idea, I know. And you’re not leaving either, you said that as well. But _why_? Why are you not going insane because you didn’t code for Facebook in three days? Why did you call the police when, for all intents and purposes I could have just hung up on you? Why did you get on a plane when you had no idea what was really going on? Why are you insisting on staying when my Mom’s here and I am conscious? I don’t get it, Mark. Explain it to me. Since when I am more important to you than _Facebook_?”

Mark is pretty sure that an asthma attack feels exactly like this, because his throat is closing up and he has a hard time swallowing. “I am … I mean … you are, we are … Wardo -- ” _Shit_ , he thinks, he’s not prepared for this (he wishes he hadn’t left the notepad in the cafeteria, but could show it and all the crossed out sentences to Wardo instead). The seconds are ticking away and his brain comes up with a lot of things (the html color code for Facebook’s header is #3b5998, he’s running out of Red Bull in Palo Alto, the algorithm Wardo wrote on his dorm window is Ea=1/1+10(Rb-Ra)/400, Eb=1/1+10(Ra-Rb)/400, Wardo gave him a thousand dollars simply because he had asked), but he’s drawing a blank on the important stuff. Wardo looks at him as if he didn’t expect anything else, and that hurts more than anything else. “Wardo, please -- “ he says, but in that moment the door opens and Wardo’s mom enters. She greets Mark with a nod and presses a soft kiss to Wardo’s temple.

“I brought your mail,” she says and Mark thinks he maybe hates her and her façade a bit. Mail belongs to a normal life, and nothing about this is normal at that moment.

“Thanks, mãe,” Wardo says softly and looks at Mark. “See you at dinner, Mark.”

“Dinner … o -- okay,” Mark says dumbfounded and leaves. He doesn’t know how long he stands in the corridor, unsure of what to do now. He wants to go back inside the room. He wants to tell Wardo about that corner of his universe that has gotten bigger and bigger and that reminds him a lot of Wardo. He wants help to hide Christy’s body. He wants a lot of things he can’t have, because the world isn’t made of code and apparently that’s the only thing he’s good at.


	3. Chapter 3

He gets back around six o’clock without remembering much of what he did in the meantime (he bought another notepad, but everything he came up with to write down sounded wrong to him). He opens the door to Wardo’s room and hopes that his mom isn’t there anymore. She isn’t, but Wardo still doesn’t look any happier. He holds a sheet of paper in his hands (and they’re trembling and Mark is scared instantly) and several others are scattered across the blanket. Wardo doesn’t look at him.

“Wardo?” Mark asks worried.

“I got … ” Wardo draws a deep breath and his voice sounds off. “I got a letter from our company … new contracts to sign.”

Mark feels like he is losing the ground under his feet. Because this? This he hadn’t seen coming. In all honesty, he had completely forgotten about those contracts. It had been a spur of the moment decision. He had been angry and hurt because Wardo had jeopardized everything they had worked for, hadn’t trusted Mark enough to know what’s good for their company. And then Sean came and had made it look like the right, like the _only_ choice, and everything had been so easy to set up. So easy, and Mark had been sure that someday Wardo would have understood, that Mark had only wanted the best for Facebook and that it was nothing personal. When he looks at Wardo’s face now, though, he knows that it’s personal.

“Mark?” Wardo says and looks up to him, and he sounds like he’s trying his hardest to control his voice, to not let it break, to hold onto the hope that none of this is real.

“Yeah?”

“Did you know about these?”

And he can’t answer, can’t get his mouth to move, because he can’t lie, but Wardo knows. His face shows that he knows. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He simply stares at Mark, slowly blinking, and Mark thinks he can see something break in Wardo’s eyes. He wants to die.

“You … ” Wardo puts the letter down, his trembling hands pressed flat against the mattress. “You only stayed so I would sign these,” he whispers.

“What?” Mark stares at him, completely taken by surprise. But he can’t let this go on, because it’s all wrong and everything is falling apart right under his hands. “No! No, of course not! I didn’t even think about the contracts anymore, I swear! And you shouldn’t have gotten them, not with all this stuff going on. And it’s nothing personal anyway, you know? It was a business decision, it has nothing to do with you and me and -- ”

“So why change your mind now?” Wardo asks coldly.

“Huh?”

“If it’s nothing personal so why don’t give the contracts to me to sign _now_?” He frowns and there’s a sarcastic smirk on his lips. “Because I got stabbed? Because I nearly died and you had to listen to it over the phone? Is that your conscience speaking or were you scared I’ll have enough time in the hospital to understand what the small print in these actually means?”

“No, it’s nothing like that. Please, Wardo, let me explain -- ”

“Would you have done it?” Wardo interrupts him.

“Done what?”

“Would you have diluted my shares down to next to nothing? Would you have thrown me out of my own company?”

“Wardo … ” and he’s pleading with his voice and his eyes, because this can’t go on. It hurts them both and gets them nowhere but to more hurt.

“Just answer the question, Mark. Be honest for once in your life.”

“ … yes,” he finally says, because Wardo deserves the truth. “Yes, I’d have done it,” he repeats. He’s already signed the death certificate to their friendship and whatever else they had, so he can bare everything else as well. Something like a sob escapes Wardo before he gets himself back under control. His face is closed off and Mark already misses all the emotions that he can usually see.

“Leave,” Wardo says and his voice is hollow. “And this time … don’t come back.”

\---

It’s sometime between this day and the next, but Dustin doesn’t really care either way, because he has somewhat lost of track of time after Christy had nearly killed Wardo -- he still has trouble understanding this concept, because how in the world could anyone want to hurt _Wardo_? He gets why half of the female population at Harvard would want to punch Mark, because yeah, he’s felt the urge from time to time as well, but Wardo? Doesn’t make sense. He’s always the polite one, the one who makes sure his date gets home okay, lends her his jacket if she’s cold, and still knows her name the next day. That’s Wardo. Not somebody who deserves to nearly bleed out in some apartment far away from his friends. This is why Dustin only wrote half the code he was assigned to do the past few days, which still is a lot better than what Chris has been doing, staring off into space alternating with starring at his phone.

“Chris,” Dustin eventually sighs and takes the phone out of his hand. “No news is good news, right?”

Chris eyes’ still follow the phone when Dustin puts it on the coffee table. Nobody else is in the living room and it’s quiet because they threw the girls out of the house as soon as they’d gotten the news.  “He should have called by now. Mark calls every day and tells us … tells us about Wardo. Why hasn’t he called yet?”

There are a hundred reasons Dustin can think of, but he doesn’t really like most of them. “He’s probably watching Wardo sleep or is thinking of new code to distract himself from his worry. I’m sure everything’s fine.”

And then the doorbell rings and later Dustin will remember this and think that this is the exact moment the universe decided to fuck with him, because Mark is standing at their front door.

“Hi, my keys must still be on my desk or something,” Mark mumbles, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world to stand on their porch in Palo Alto in the middle of the night when he should be with Wardo in New York.

“Holy shit,” Dustin breathes, his eyes gone wide.

“Mark? What are you doing here? How’s Wardo?” Chris asks and Dustin wants to thank God that at least one of them still knows how to articulate sentences.

“Where’s Sean?” Mark asks and sidesteps them without making eye contact. Something bad knots together in Dustin’s stomach, because the last few days Mark had made it very clear that he wouldn’t leave Wardo’s bedside.

“Bedroom, I think -- Mark, what happened to Wardo?” Chris asks again and he looks unsure if he really wants to know.

“He’s fine, his mom is with him,” Mark says distractedly. “I really need to talk to Sean, though. Bedroom, you said?”

“His mom? Did he really just say he left Wardo with his _mom_? What happened to _convenient_ flight and she should just _fuck off_?” Dustin looks at Chris, who only shrugs his shoulders and they follow Mark into the house. When they get into the bedroom, Sean is already up and confused by Mark’s reappearance.

“Hi, Mark … um … how’s Wardo?“ Sean asks and scrubs a hand over his face.

“Why don’t you tell me? Since you already sent him the contracts,” Mark says through clenched teeth and he has a decidedly murderous look in his eyes. Dustin doesn’t think he’s ever seen Mark so angry and he takes a step back.

“Mark,” Chris says and holds out his hands placatingly, “why don’t you come back to the living room and you explain what’s going on and about these con -- ”

“No,” Mark hisses and Chris blinks at him, totally surprised. Dustin knows that feeling, because he has no idea who stands in front of them either. Whoever it is, he doesn’t act like Mark, who looks as if he wants Sean to die on the spot. “And you,” he points at Sean, “you get out of this house. Immediately.”

“You can’t be serious,” Sean says.

“I am.”

“But you wanted him to sign these! It’s what’s best for the company,” Sean defends himself and Dustin feels like he’s missing a huge chunk of information.

“Guys, what’s in these contracts?” He asks, but neither Sean nor Mark seem to listen to him and Chris looks as clueless as he is.

“I never wanted him to sign them when he’s in the hospital! What kind of person would do that?”

And then Sean honest to god laughs, head thrown back and all. It’s an eerie view. “You … _you_ of all people have the nerve to say that? _You_ wanted your _best_ friend out of the company! _You_ ordered this without batting an eyelash! And don’t tell me you wouldn’t have diluted his shares, because we both know you would have done it.”

Mark looks as if somebody has punched him in the face (Dustin can sympathize, because diluted shares? What. The. Hell?), but he pulls himself together quickly enough. “Get out. This company doesn’t need you any longer,” he says, his voice low and threatening.

“You’re wrong,” Sean says and shrugs, but he’s pulling on his jacket. He walks up to Mark and stops in front of him, a smirk on his face. “And you have been wrong about these contracts not being anything personal as well, haven’t you?” He hisses into Mark’s ear. “How does it feel, Mark? To loose something you didn’t know you even possessed?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, but walks out on them.

Mark sinks down onto the bed and hides his face in his hands.

\---

“Sweet mother of Jesus,” Dustin says, because that’s the only thing he can think of that doesn’t involve throwing his Mac at Mark. And believe him, he’s still considering this option among others, like drowning Sean in the pool and kicking himself for allowing Mark to convince them to stay in Palo Alto. Of course it had to end in a disaster.

Okay, so everybody and his dog knows that Mark has certain troubles with social interactions, but that’s fine because nerds like him are not expected to be good at this, and Dustin nevertheless had been relatively sure that Mark is his friend. He’s not so sure about it anymore, though. You don’t go around and kick your friends out of a co-founded company. “So, did I understand this correctly? You basically wanted Wardo to sign contracts that should have _trap_ written all over them in blinking neon letters? You wanted to cheat _Wardo_ out of Facebook?”

“I was angry,” Mark says, but it doesn’t sound like he’s defending himself. Instead he has guilt written all over his face. Dustin sighs. He’s tired, and he can’t believe any of this. It’s probably entirely too late in the night to try and make Mark see the light, but it just can’t wait till tomorrow, because this is about Wardo and how Mark fucked it up.

“Oh. My. God,” Dustin says.

“Mark, being angry is no excuse … this … this is _Wardo_ we’re talking about,” Chris butts in from where he stands on the door. He looks as if he’s trying to decide whether to walk out on them the way Sean did or not. Dustin can’t blame him, but he really hopes Chris stays, because he’s not sure he can manage this clusterfuck on his own. He doesn’t _want_ to manage this on his own. Someone has to do it, though, because Dustin has a pretty decent idea how Mark would be without Wardo. It’s not a happy world.

“I know. Believe me, I know,” Mark says. Dustin thinks it’s unfair that he looks so utterly lost, like a stray puppy whose family left it behind at a rest stop. Only that it doesn’t make sense considering who left whom behind in this case. Mark still could be the promo picture of misery, though.

“I don’t think you do, Mark,” Dustin says, deliberately slow. He’s never wanted to be in the place he’s in now, it feels like he’s adding to the list of people betraying Wardo, but he’s kept silent for so long and if this goes on, then silence will all be that’s left between the four of them. Because he may have a forgiving soul, but if Mark doesn’t make up for what he’s done, Dustin doesn’t think their friendship will stay the same.

“What do you mean?” Mark asks, and he sounds as if he’s dreading the answer.

Dustin looks at him and searches for the right words. He’s been sitting on his suspicions for so long, he doesn’t know how to formulate them now, how to make Mark actually see what’s going on. “This has never been about business for Wardo. Well, it has been, but only a minor part. This has been -- this _is_ about you, Mark. About you and him.” He lets that sink in for a moment. “And you probably did the worst thing you could and made it _only_ a business deal. As if it’s normal for a friend to invest 19.000 Dollars in an idea presented during Caribbean Night. And hey, I like you, but I wouldn’t have done it even if I had the money to begin with.”

“But he’s never … ” Mark trails off.

“If you’re thinking of continuing this sentence with _never made a big declaration of love to me_ , then excuse me for a moment while I get my Mac to throw it at your head, you idiot!” He’s nearly yelling now, because for somebody who had 1600 points in his SAT, Mark can be incredibly stupid. “He gave you the money! He makes sure you are watered and fed in regular intervals! He listens to you talking in code as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world! And he always, _always_ comes back as if you’re magnetic, even when you’re the biggest asshole on campus.” And then he’s done for the moment, all his energy spent and he slumps down on the bed next to Mark, who still doesn’t say a thing. It drives Dustin insane, and he wishes for a keyboard so he could write it down in code. Mark always has an easier time understanding code than English.

“He loves you, Mark,” Chris says quietly from across the room. Surprised, Dustin looks up to him. He’s never been sure if Chris knew as well, they had never talked about it. “And to be honest, I think what you did to him hurt him more than what Christy did.” Dustin actually flinches when Chris says that, because it’s true. Only that he was too scared to actually say it out aloud.

“And I think you know that he loves you,” Dustin adds, because if this is the moment they spill the truth, then they can tell everything. Next to him Mark makes a pained noise in the back of his throat. “You remember that night you invented Facemash? You told Wardo that you needed him, and he said he’s there for you. But you said _no, I need the algorithm_. Do you remember what I did?”

Mark turns his head to him, his brows furrowed together. “You were rolling around on my bed and giggled.” He doesn’t sound pleased.

“Yes, wanna know why? Because you said _no_. Why did you say _no_ , Mark? What exactly did you think Wardo offered you that night?” Dustin presses on. Mark bites his lips and looks as if he’s forgotten how to breathe. “I think you’re scared, Mark. That’s why you followed Sean’s advice. I bet you thought that it’s better to leave Wardo behind once and for all instead of facing up to what you feel for him.”

“The only question left is,” Chris says, “What _do_ you feel, Mark?”

\---

“I love him,” he says, his voice firm and strong. It shuts everybody up, and if he weren’t so busy ruthlessly squelching the feeling of having lost the most important person in his life, he’d actually be amused by Dustin and Chris’ shocked faces. It should have been easy, he thinks, to just sit down and tell Wardo everything. He has had opportunities enough, Wardo has given him more than one chance to say what’s written on hundreds of pages stored in the part of the universe Mark has spent too long ignoring. “I -- ”

“No,” Dustin stops him with a raised hand before he can go on.

“What?”

“Keep all these thoughts inside your thick head, will you? Don’t waste them on us, because we already believe you that you’re head over heels in love with Wardo. We do, Chris, don’t we?”

“Of course.” Chris smiles for the first time in days. “I’m going to buy a plane ticket to New York City,” he says and leaves the bedroom.

“That’s my man,” Dustin says and looks utterly pleased with himself.

“Um … excuse me?” He snaps his fingers in front of Dustin. “What’s up with the plane ticket?”

“Mark,” Dustin says and rolls his eyes, “do you honestly believe we’re letting you stay _here_ when you have some talking to do back in New York City? What kind of friends do you think we are, tsk.”

“But Wardo made it very clear that -- ” Dustin shushes him before he can express any of his doubts. And he has so many of them, now that everything is out in the open, now that he sneaked through the door to that special part of his own universe. And he thinks he’d feel really excited about all of this if he hadn’t destroyed everything before he knew what he was doing. Now he only feels sick, because Wardo deserves better than him.

“Yeah, I know what he said,” Dustin stops his train of thoughts. He puts a hand on Marks shoulder, and the gesture reminds Mark of Wardo and -- he’s not going there right now. “And nobody said this would be easy -- because, honestly, it’s _you_.” He shrugs his shoulders apologetically. “But the truth is that Wardo spent years waiting for you and already knows you’re a socially incompetent asshole. And yes, you fucked up big time, but again -- this is Wardo we’re talking about. So, this time, you’ll need to stop speaking in code and start expressing your feelings in actual words, okay? And I don’t care if you write it all down during the flight and read from your notepad once you’re in his room, or if you serenade him -- just,” he squeezes Mark’s shoulder, “make sure there’s no room for him to misunderstand what you’re saying, okay? He deserves to know it. And an apology probably wouldn’t hurt either.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“I never knew you were so insightful.”

Dustin rolls his eyes again and slaps him on the back. “Sometimes, I feel really underappreciated around here,” he murmurs and smiles. “Come on, man. You need to pack your stuff, because we don’t want to see you around for quite some time.”

“One could think you actually just don’t want me around,” Mark says when he gets up, but apparently he missed the humorous tone he was going for, because Dustin goes still and has this serious face all of a sudden.

“No, it’s not that,” he says quietly, “I just want both of you to be happy.”

“Oh … okay,” Mark replies, because this is new. Usually, they don’t have conversations which include any level of seriousness if it’s not Facebook-related. “I … thanks.”

\---

The flight to New York City is horrible, and not only because they have to fly through a storm front. Mark is pretty sure he’d feel like being sick any moment either way. The storm only gives him a better excuse for looking like death warmed over. He’s waiting at the baggage claim (Dustin and Chris made him pack a whole suitcase including his laptop) and wonders if actually throwing up would settle his stomach. Probably not, he thinks, because he’s still not sure what to do now, what to say. Maybe he should just be sick in Wardo’s room. It would get him pity points from Wardo (simply because it’s Wardo, and Mark refuses to believe that he stopped caring), but then he thinks back to Dustin’s words and yes -- Wardo deserves to know the truth. So, no cheating his way out of this.

He takes his baggage, gets into a cab and drives to his hotel (he never checked out). He knows he stalls for time when he unpacks his clothes and puts them into the wardrobe. For five minutes or so he even contemplates booting his laptop and writing code for Facebook, but then he remembers Dustin and Chris and they’re right -- code won’t get him what he wants this time. So he closes his laptop again and walks the few streets to the hospital.

His stomach is forming impossible knots by the time he’s on the right floor and walks the last few meters to Wardo’s room. It’s already dark outside, but nobody stops him, so he figures it’s still visiting time. He thinks about knocking and saying who he is, but then he thinks that Wardo would only tell him to fuck off, so he simply opens the door and steps inside.

The room doesn’t look like he remembers it. There are three new i.v. poles and some other new machinery that wasn’t here before that make Mark’s heart beat faster in a bad way. But what is worse is that _Wardo_ doesn’t look like Mark remembers him. He’s even paler now and sweaty, and he looks like he’s in pain, even though he’s sleeping.

“Wardo?” He whispers, his voice cracking on the last syllable, and can’t help but cross the last few meters to touch Wardo’s skin. It feels hot under his fingers.

“Mark?” Wardo whispers and for a moment everything is okay, because Wardo’s voice is soft and he blinks at Mark, a small smile on his lips like he’s actually happy to see him.

“I’m here, Wardo,” Mark replies and smiles back, his thumb rubbing circles in the back of Wardo’s hand.

“You’re here … ” And then the moment is gone and Wardo frowns at him. “You’re here! Mark, why are you here?” He asks and draws his hand away from Mark.

“Well … ”

“I told you to leave, didn’t I? I _explicitly_ told you to leave and to _not_ come back, didn’t I?”

“Um … yes, you did, but -- ”

“Why do you never do what you should do, Mark? Why do you always ignore other people?” The sleep finally vanishes out of Wardo’s voice. He tries to sit up in his bed and Mark is no expert, but he doesn’t think that’s a good idea at the moment, not with the way Wardo looks like he’s about to pass out from pain.

“I’m not -- Wardo, why don’t you lie back down again? And what’s up with the fever?” He tries to press Wardo back on his shoulders, but Wardo simply slaps his hands away and growls at him.

“I can’t believe you’re back!”

“Yes, I am, I’m back from Palo Alto, but seriously, what’s up with the fever? And all these new machines? How serious is this?” Mark tries to squelch the panic rising in his chest, but Wardo’s pale, sweaty skin isn’t helping.

“You have no right to ask any of these questions!” Wardo nearly yells now. “You're not my boyfriend. You're not even my friend!”

“But I want to,” Mark says.

“What?”

“To be your boyfriend.”

“Oh God, Mark.” Wardo makes a pained noise and squeezes his eyes shut. Mark's heart constricts.

“And I get that you don’t believe that, I do, really. You probably think that’s just another ruse to get your signature -- it isn’t, just so you know. And you probably want me to die right now, which … yeah, is somewhat justified. But … even if … you know ... ” He falters for a moment, because he’s still skipping around what he really feels and he’s angry with himself for it. Wardo deserves better. “Well, I understand that the chances of us being together are even slimmer than the chances of me inventing a time machine to undo all of this, but I still want to be your friend, because I care. I really do. And I don’t say this often enough -- well, to be honest I never say it, which is something I probably should work on, but … um … when that call got disconnected the only thing I could think about was the fastest way to you, because I was so damn scared and I couldn’t handle it. I’m not used to being scared, you know? But then I was here … and … um … they said you barely survived and I can’t … I mean, that was the worst thing I could imagine -- a world without you, you know? And … um … so, yeah, I know that you don’t want to be friends with me anymore, but … um … maybe, maybe I can still be friends with you, you know, and care about you? Because I do … I care about you. Actually, I love you -- but I don’t think you want to hear that right now. So, sorry? But I didn’t know that before … um … okay, so maybe I did know that before, but I was scared. You know I’m shit with feelings and I’m probably the worst boyfriend imaginable, so yeah … I was scared. Still am, to be honest. Shit, seems like I’m more used to being scared than I realized. But you … you deserve better than this. Better than me. You deserve somebody who loves you better and cares better and doesn’t pull bullshit because he’s too scared to admit his own feelings. Well, I … um … I probably should go now. But if you could maybe think about allowing me to be still your friend? That … um … would be nice. ”

“That … that would be nice?” Wardo stares at him with bright, feverish eyes.

“Um … yes, well, actually it would be rather awesome than nice, because we both know I don’t deserve it.”

“I can’t believe any of this,” Wardo mutters, his mouth half open.

“It’s not the fever, if you’re wondering. I really said all of this. I think there’s even a medical term for what I did. Logorrhoe, if I remember correctly. I probably should get tested for a neurological disorder now.” Wardo snorts and Mark counts this as a success. “Anyway, sorry for that.”

“No … don’t be … that was quite enlightening,” Wardo says slowly. “But I can’t … it’s too soon and I really … just,” he shakes his head, “not now, okay?”

“Okay,” Mark says although it hurts. But _not now_ doesn’t mean never, right? And this is not a Lifetime movie with instant forgiveness, so _not now_ is all he could have asked for. It’s not _a leave and don’t come back_ or _I wish you would just die and rot in hell_. It’s better than that. It’s hope. “I’ll go back to my hotel then … can I … um … can I come back tomorrow?”

Wardo looks at him for a long time and Mark already sees his hope vanishing behind the horizon, but eventually Wardo nods.

“Yes,” Wardo says quietly, and he looks as if he can’t believe his own words. “I’d like that.”

“Okay, see you tomorrow then.”

\---

He buys a sandwich and a bottle of water on the way back to his hotel and tries not to wallow in self-pity. He also tries to remember what exactly he’d said, so he can repeat it again and again in case Wardo doesn’t remember any of this coming tomorrow (and okay, he’d rather not repeat everything because he’s pretty sure he sounded like an idiot, but he can repeat the important parts -- _I care, I love you, can I still be your friend?_ ).

He sits cross-legged on his bed and boots up his laptop. He eats the sandwich and actually drinks the water, and he remembers to write Dustin and Chris an email ( _He listened and didn’t throw me out the moment he saw me. Maybe he doesn’t hate me_ , he writes and can’t help the hope that’s seeping in the message). Then he spends ten minutes staring at the screen before he decides that every code he can come up with tonight would only be an endless string of _I’m sorry, so fucking sorry_. He gets a reply mail from Dustin and Chris ( _Wardo isn’t able to hate you, it’s a universal law or something. Just keep trying, bro_ \-- he’s pretty the last part is from Dustin) and falls asleep in front of the still glowing screen.

The next morning, he opens his eyes to the twilight of an awakening city and has a stiff neck and bleary eyes. He buys bagels and smoothies in the shop he already knows (he debated throwing a coin to see if he really should do it, but finally decided against it -- he’s never believed in superstition the way Dustin does) and takes the stairs to the right hospital floor because it’s healthier (and it has nothing to do with buying more time or anything). He even knocks on the door this time and tries to calm down his breathing before he enters.

“Hi, I brought -- ” He stops dead, but is quick-thinking enough to put the bag with the bagels and the smoothies down on the nightstand before his trembling hands decide they can’t hold the bag anymore.

“Hi,” Wardo says, his voice hoarse and raw. He looks as if the single word depleted all of his energy and he closes his eyes for a second. That’s when Mark notices that the nasal cannula is back and that there are even more machines surrounding them. The room suddenly feels crowded.

“What … Wardo?”

“Fever isn’t gone,” Wardo explains. “Funny, isn’t it? They were so worried about pneumonia and now I have an infection.”

“This is not funny,” he replies automatically. It really isn’t. Nothing about this is. It’s scary, even scarier than when he first saw Wardo after surgery. This time, Wardo is awake and talking, and Mark can see and hear how bad he feels.

“No, you’re right.” Wardo draws the blanket up to his chin and Mark sees that he shivers despite the fever. The panic rising in his chest nearly drowns out Wardo’s next words. “My mom will stop by later. I told her to bring the contracts.”

“You -- why?”

Tired and a bit curiously, Wardo looks at him. “So I can sign them and you can fly back to Palo Alto.”

“I love you,” he says the first thing that comes to his mind. It actually feels good to say this (the first good thing today) and he slowly gets used to the sound of it. He thinks he could get used to a lot of things if they involve Wardo.

“Yeah,” Wardo says slowly, “you said that.” There’s something like pity in his eyes, as if Mark told a really bad joke and Wardo is just too nice a person to point it out. Mark feels like someone kicked him in the stomach.

“I mean it,” he says for emphasis. “I love you.”

“Cross your fingers that my mom gets here before noon, I don’t think they let me do paperwork in the ICU.”

“Did you hear a single -- ICU?”

“ICU.” Wardo shrugs resigned. “They said they would have to transfer me back there if the fever isn’t down by noon … it doesn’t feel like it’s going down.”

“Shit.”

“That’s another way to put it.”

“Wardo,” he says and stretches his hand out to touch him, but Wardo just stares at him, so Mark lets his hand sink midway. “I … um … brought you breakfast? Bagels and smoothies.” He lamely offers, because that seems to be a safe topic, and he doesn’t want to risk being thrown out for yet another declaration of love. Not now, anyway. He wants to stay close to Wardo, because he’s afraid he’ll slip away when he looks the other way. He looks so worn down and frail, it’s definitely a possibility.

“Not hungry … and I’m not allowed to drink,” Wardo murmurs, his eyes half-closed.

Mark thinks his heart missed a few beats. This can’t be good. “Why … um … ?”

“I think my kidneys don’t work like they’re supposed to do … probably dialysis soon, but they’re not telling me yet.”

And what Mark probably scares the most is not the mention of kidney failure and infection and whatever else is wreaking havoc on Wardo’s body right now (well, it does scare him beyond his capacities to rationally understand it), but how absolutely flat Wardo’s voice has sounded telling him. Like it doesn’t matter anyway, like it’s just another thing he has no control over and has to endure, and the only thing important right now is to sort his business out. Which is wrong on so many levels Mark couldn’t even explain it in code.

“I’m not here for the contracts, Wardo,” he whispers. Wardo slowly blinks at him before he closes his eyes. “And I’m not leaving either. I promise.”

“Whatever.”

Mark settles on a chair and thinks this is how his heart feels breaking.


	4. Chapter 4

Wardo has been asleep for over two hours when Mark decides he needs to talk to a doctor (because now the medical file reads like a code he never learned). If he’s lucky the hospital staff still thinks he has the status of the boyfriend, and he tries to look as if that’s still the truth (and not so far away from it Mark could be on the other side of the world for all Wardo cares). However, Mark’s plan gets derailed as soon as he steps outside the room and literally runs into Wardo’s mom.

“Shit,” he says, and then (because Wardo probably will be even angrier with him for using profanity in front of his mother), “sorry, I … I didn’t mean to curse, I … um.” He claps his hands behind his back because he doesn’t know what else to do with them.

“It’s okay, Mark,” she says, her voice as soft as Wardo’s gets sometimes, and with the same alluring accent mingled into her words. She looks as well put together as the other day, but Mark sees the fine lines engraved in her skin, more pronounced by what looks like little to no sleep (Mark knows that look, he sees it in the mirror nearly every week). Suddenly, she pulls something out of her purse and holds it out to him -- it’s a folder, and he actually takes a step back. “It is the contract,” she explains, as if Mark doesn’t know what it is, as if he doesn’t want it to never have existed in the first place.

“I don’t want it,” he says forcefully. “And I don’t want Wardo to sign it either.”

“Huh,” she says. Suddenly, he has the feeling that this is the first time she’s actually looked at him, as if she’s trying to gauge whether he’s being honest or not. “You know, his father would approve of this contract. It’s only business after all.”

“Oh my god.” The words escape Mark’s mouth before he can help it. He feels physically ill all of a sudden, as if he may throw up any minute now. He stumbles to a row of chairs on the opposite side of the corridor and sinks down, his head in his hands. (This … this is probably the worst thing she could have told him. That of all people in the world, Wardo’s _father_ would applaud Mark’s plan. Now he can’t fathom any outcome of this in which Wardo forgives him.) Mark had thought he couldn’t possibly feel worse for doing that to Wardo -- he was wrong.

“I can tell Eduardo I couldn’t find the contract,” Wardo’s mom says and sits down next to him.

“You -- what?” His head snaps up, and she already must have given him the title of the most linguistically-challenged person on the entire floor, but he simply didn’t expect this.

“I can tell Eduardo I couldn’t find the contract,” she repeats. Her posture is still as rigid as he remembers from their first meeting, but she also looks worn down. The same way Wardo looks inside this hospital room (Mark has the sudden urge to just go inside and to touch Wardo, to reassure him that everything’s going to be fine). Mark wonders if only sheer force of will makes her look so composed, if she simply doesn’t know what else to do (maybe she feels like him, lost and so fucking scared, and she’s just better at hiding it). They must make quite the pair, he thinks -- she the businesswoman, sitting on the chair with a straight back and perfect make-up, and he, the college drop-out in a hoodie and flip-flops -- side by side like this.

“I … um … I’d prefer that option,” he finally says.

“Okay, then.” She slides the folder back into her purse and looks straight ahead, to the door Wardo lies behind.

“He … um … he said he probably has to go back to the ICU,” he says, not sure if that’s a statement or a question.

“Yes, they’re moving him. The doctor just told me.” She pauses for a moment. “And they’re starting with the dialysis to help his kidneys recover their full function.”

“He can have one of my kidneys,” he blurts out. And it’s completely ridiculous (because of course Wardo’s kidneys will work again, and Mark has no idea whatsoever if their blood types even match) and he’s completely embarrassed himself now, but curiously enough it elicits the first smile from Wardo’s mom.

“You are a good person, Mark Zuckerberg,” she finally says.

“No, I’m really not,” he promptly disagrees. He’s a lot of things (the CEO of Facebook, a Havard drop-out, socially incompetent, in love with the one person in the world he hurt the most), but he’s certainly not a good person.

“You were in Palo Alto, right?” Wardo’s mom asks curiously. “You flew there the night before yesterday.”

“Um … yes.”

“And you came back.”

“Yes,” he answers and thinks this is getting weirder by the second. But whatever Wardo’s mom has been looking for, apparently she found it. She nods at him, still with that smile on her face.

“Then you’re certainly trying to be a good person now, Mark,” she says with such a conviction in her voice that Mark doesn’t dare to disagree with her again. She gets up and takes her purse in her hand. “I assume you’ll wait?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Good … good.” She nods at him and walks to the door of Wardo’s room. Mark stares after her and can’t help but think he agreed to a whole different thing altogether. He doesn’t think he minds.

\---

Secretly, Mark suspects that Wardo’s mom donated a new wing to the hospital, and now they gave her a golden crown and she can do whatever pleases her.

“You … I can stay here?” he asks once again and nods in the direction of the ICU doors (Wardo had been moved there half an hour ago). “And nobody is going to throw me out? Not even that nurse who … nevermind.”

“You can stay with him,” Wardo’s mom confirms.

“But don’t you, I mean … you’re his mom … ” he says and feels uncomfortable in his own skin, because talking still isn’t his best friend (and he really doesn’t want to affront her, because he maybe still doesn’t understand the whole _convenient_ flight thing, but he thinks she really cares nevertheless).

And then she does something people know not to do around him (Dustin doesn’t count, because apparently he was desperate in Palo Alto), but it doesn’t seem to matter because she’s a Saverin. She puts her hand on his shoulders and squeezes, and it feels _okay_. Not _good_ , because she’s not Wardo (and he thinks he’s stupid for not noticing this connection earlier), but _okay_ ,and he doesn’t freak out (he believes he’d freak out if Wardo’s dad did it, but then he can’t imagine him doing anything even remotely affectionate).

“Yes, I am his mom, but you’re … _Mark_ ,” she says, and he probably should tell her that this doesn’t explain _anything_ , but she has this soft look in her eyes and he gets the feeling she knows more than she’s supposed to do. He tries not to have a panic attack (ohmygodohmygodohmygodhowdoessheknowdoessheknowIdontwannabekilledbytheBrazilianmafiabeforeWardoforgivesme). Another squeeze, this time even more gentle, reminds him of the present and he draws a deep breath. “And I have to go and speak to the lawyers, but I don’t want to leave Eduardo alone,” she elaborates.

“Lawyers?” he croaks (god, she’ll probably rethink her attitude towards him if he goes on sounding like he’s the carrier of an infectious neurological disorder).

“Lawyers,” she repeats and loses the soft look in her eyes (he instantly misses it, like he misses Wardo’s smile -- he’s so screwed). “That … girl,” and woah, he didn’t know Wardo’s mom could sound like this, “is trying to walk out of custody on bail.”

It’s like a rush of cold water -- to be reminded that there’s an actual person out there who’s responsible for all of this, that he knows that person (albeit only in passing, but he still remembers the sounds Wardo made because of her in that restroom). “Oh,” he says, “but she’s not -- ”

“Not if I have any say in this,” Wardo’s mom says, and she looks determined. Somehow, Mark is relieved that they’re on the same side in this. “And now you go, Eduardo shouldn’t be alone for so long.” And there it is again, this soft look in her eyes. Two minutes later he again sits next to Wardo’s bed and wants to ask him if he knows what to make of all of this, but Wardo’s asleep. Again. Or still. Mark can’t tell. Wardo’s been sleeping an awful lot these past days, and Mark thinks back to the corridor in Palo Alto (the truth is he can’t stop thinking about it, like he can change all of this if he just finds a way to say the right words at the right time back there), and _riding the subway fourteen hours a day_. Maybe that’s another reason why Wardo sleeps all the time, not only because of the operation and the drugs, but because he’s been really tired.

And then there it is again, this strong urge to undo it all, to somehow ease the pain lines on Wardo’s face, to just hold his hand. Mark has never felt this way before, and for a moment it unsettles him how all-encompassing the feeling is. He wants to _touch_ Wardo, and he never wants to touch people (sweat and germs and dirt on their skin). But then, Wardo never has been people, right? Or maybe he was, at the very beginning (“Hi, I’m Eduardo, mind if I sit here? Lunch is boring being all alone.”), but soon afterwards he started simply being _Wardo_ (“When was the last time you ate something, Mark? Come on, I’m buying”).

“You think too loud.”

“Do not,” he automatically says before he can trip through a sentence because he’s surprised that Wardo’s awake.

“Yes, you do,” Wardo insists, and Mark wonders if he remembers that he’s supposed to be mad at Mark because he smiles softly. Maybe it’s the drugs. “What did you think about?”

“That you quit being people like five minutes after we met, and that I was just too dense to realize it.”

“Is that supposed to make sense?”

“It does to me,” he says and shrugs.

“Of course it does,” Wardo murmurs, and there’s still that smile on his face. Mark starts to wonder if memory loss is a side effect of dialysis and if maybe he should get a doctor. “And you were right, I’m a bad CFO,” Wardo adds, like an afterthought.

“What? I never -- ”

“You did, in Palo Alto,” Wardo reminds him and Mark swallows dryly because it’s true. Maybe he didn’t say it in exact these words, but it was what he had meant.

“I also said I need you, that I _want_ you,” Mark says stubbornly. He will repeat this as often as he needs until Wardo remembers that part as well (stupid, stupid corridor). “But you seem hellbent on forgetting this little detail. Care to explain why?”

“Because … ” Wardo trails of and licks his dry and chapped lips. “Because I didn’t believe you.”

“Do you now?” he asks and his voice wavers. Wardo looks at him, and Mark swears he can actually feel the seconds ticking by with the beat of his heart. If this day goes on like this he’s going to be sick for real in one of the restrooms very soon.

“I don’t know,” Wardo says hesitantly, and his cold fingertips brushes Mark’s hand, “but I‘m cold and tired and probably crazy, so I don’t know if I believe you, but I want to.”

“Okay, okay,” Mark whispers and doesn’t actually realize that their fingers are tangled together now. “I can work with that … ”

“Thought so,” Wardo says and when his eyes slip close again he squeezes Mark’s hands. It feels good.

\---

Sometime, he must have fallen asleep, his head cushioned by his crossed arms on Wardo’s bed. He wakes up to the feeling of being observed, but the first thing he really notices is Wardo’s warm hand in his own. He doesn’t raise his chin from his arms when he stares at Wardo’s fingers, just inhales silently and tries to categorize the flutter in his stomach. His back hurts from being bent for so long, and his cheeks feel flushed, but he doesn’t care, not when he can feel Wardo’s slow, steady pulse beating under his fingertips.

“I think the fever’s down,” Wardo says quietly, and Mark turns his head in the direction of his voice. He still doesn’t raise his head, quite content to just rest on his arms for a little while longer, and to look at Wardo’s face, so close he can actually feel his warm breath on his skin. Wardo’s hair is sleep-tussled and he looks more doe-eyed than Mark remembers. Mark never wanted to touch him as much as in this moment, but he’s afraid it’s too much, too soon, so he settles for drawing circles with his thumb on the backside of Wardo’s hand. This time, Wardo doesn’t flinch away from him.

“That’s good,” Mark whispers back and smiles. He feels lazy and content and still a bit sleepy, and he hasn’t felt that way in a long time. But just being here, being allowed to touch Wardo and to smile at him, it makes him feel content, and he hadn’t known that this was all it took. No coding binge for four days straight, no changing the way the relationships in the world work. It’s only this relationship he wants to change (he tries not to think of what he’ll do if Wardo doesn’t want the same change anymore, because he doesn’t think he can go back even if he wanted to).

“So,” Wardo says and trails off for a minute or so. He’s still looking at Mark, though, never once breaking eye contact. “You’re really not back for the contract?”

It takes Mark a moment to remember what Wardo’s talking about, but then he shakes his head as much as his position allows him (he doesn’t want to move, he thinks. He feels safe here, so close to Wardo, like nothing can separate them as long as he still has his hands curled around Wardo’s fingers). “No,” he simply states. “I’m here because -- ”

“You love me,” Wardo whispers, and it sounds like it’s a question, like he’s trying out the words on his tongue, and it’s something new and foreign. Mark really hopes it doesn’t leave a bad taste in his mouth.

“Yes, I do. I love you.” It feels as easy to say this as it was back in Palo Alto, and he knows with absolute clarity (like the kind he gets when he writes perfect, flawless code) that it’s true. It makes him feel really, really humble, and it also scares the shit out of him, because it just feels so huge, like he’s hit by an avalanche the same moment a tsunami crashes down on him. Wardo’s Adam’s apple is bobbing up and down, like he’s trying really hard to find an answer to that. “You don’t have to say it back, you know,” Mark finally says, feeling insecure (he suddenly realizes he can be hurt so fucking much right now, but then, it’s nothing he hasn’t already done to Wardo) and tries to look away, but Wardo squeezes his hand to stop him.

“I … I already told you I’m crazy, so … yes, I’m not sure this is smart, but with you it’s never been … I mean … yes,” and now Wardo is actually blushing (Mark is so thankful the fever is gone and he can actually see it), “I love you, too.”

Mark is pretty sure that if his head weren’t already resting on his arms, he wouldn’t know how to uphold it any longer. So, okay, technically, he already knew that Wardo loves him. Dustin and Chris’ line of argument had been pretty convincing once he’d emerged from his world of code and Facebook, but to actually _hear_ it from Wardo pretty much floors him (he’s going to fulfill Dustin and Chris’ every fucking wish once he sees them again, he vows silently).  “Does it mean I don’t have to _pretend_ to be your boyfriend any longer?” he asks and holds his breath. And maybe this is too soon, he thinks, and Wardo needs time to figure everything out, but then he’s already spent a few years thinking about it, so --

“I don’t think anyone was fooled by you, anyway,” Wardo says and smiles (not even code has ever made Mark so happy).

“It feels weird to thank you for this, but I feel like doing it nonetheless. Thank you.”

“You’re crazy,” Wardo says, but he still smiles at Mark, and he looks better than he has in days, and Mark hopes it’s not only because the fever is gone, but because he’s finally happy again (Mark has every intention of keeping him that way).

“I want to kiss you,” he suddenly says and then his lips go _oh_ , because his mouth didn’t consult his brain before speaking up. And they probably shouldn’t do this, because there are so many i.v. lines and cables for the heart monitor and who knows what else, and Wardo still has the nasal cannula. It doesn’t stop them, though. Wardo turns his head a little more to the side and Mark moves a bit forward, and they meet somewhere in the middle. Objectively, it’s probably one of the worst kisses in Mark’s life (not that he had _that_ many to compare it to), the oxygen line is in the way, and he only hits the corner of Wardo’s mouth at first, and Wardo’s lip feel chapped against his own, but none of it matters because it still feels right, it still feels good.

Scratch that, it feels fucking _perfect_.

\---

Mark has never taken any drugs, and he thinks people are incredibly stupid for ruining their health when they could get high by simply kissing (and coding, but kissing is better). Because that’s how he feels right now, high, and he doesn’t believe that any drugs could give him the same feeling.

“You look … dazed,” Wardo remarks with a chuckle once they break apart.

“And you look like you’re -- ” Mark is going for something ridiculous, but then he sees the pinched look on Wardo’s face, and he frowns, “ … in pain. Are you in pain? Why are you -- ” He raises his head and looks around for the nurse.

“Mark, it’s okay,” Wardo says and squeezes his hand.

“What? No, it’s not okay -- ”

“They told me headaches can be a side effect of the dialysis. You don’t need to get a nurse for this,” Wardo explains calmly.

“But … ” he bites his lips. The dialysis should help Wardo to get better, not cause any more pain.

“And I don’t think they could give me any more pain meds than they already have, anyway,” Wardo says calmly and rubs his thumb over Mark’s inner wrist soothingly. And Mark has no idea when Wardo started to take care of him again (maybe he never stopped), even though Mark is the one supposed to take care of Wardo this time around. It feels good, though, to know that Wardo is still looking out for him.

“Okay, but you’re … you’re telling me when it gets worse, okay?”

“I promise,” Wardo says, “but right now you should probably call Chris and Dustin and let them know how it went.”

“How what went?”

Wardo gives another chuckle. “Please … ”

And Mark has no idea when he became so obvious or why the heck then nobody spelt his feelings out for him before, but maybe that’s not how it’s done, this whole _figure out your feelings and act upon them_. It doesn’t matter, though, because he’s here now.

“I’m going, I’m going,” he murmurs and doesn’t really think about it before he bends down and presses a quick kiss to Wardo’s lips. Wardo doesn’t look like he particularly minds.

\---

He must be on speaker, because he hears both Chris and Dustin, and they’re both talking at the same time. It’s mildly annoying.

“How is he?” That’s Chris.

“How are you _both_?” That’s Dustin.

“Dustin! Don’t you think Wardo’s health is a bit more important right now?” Chris chides him.

“Well, I’m sure he’s fine considering the circumstances, and the fact that Mark is actually calling us!”

“Guys, I’m -- “ but nobody listens to Mark.

“God, you can be an insensitive jerk, Dustin.”

“I just want to know if I can remove Mark from the flight-banned FBI list, because he’s made up with Wardo. I’m the compassionate friend here, actually!”

“You did what?” That coming from Mark and Chris simultaneously.

“Ouch -- Chris! That was really uncalled for,” Dustin complains, and Mark starts to wonder if the house will still be standing once he gets back.

“So, how is Wardo?” Chris asks.

“He’s … getting better, I think. The fever broke, but he’s still on dialysis.”

“He’s what?” He really should tell Chris and Dustin that they don’t need to yell at him despite the distance between them. He can hear them just fine.

“There were problems with his kidneys, but he already looks much better.”

“Oh … good to know,” Chris says, sounding a bit shocked.

“Um … you’re sure we shouldn’t fly out to you?” Dustin asks and reminds Mark that there are really people out there who care as well. It does funny things to his stomach.

“I’m sure. His mom is still here, and I need you two working on Facebook. You didn’t crash it yet, did you?”

“ … ”

“Guys?” He’s shifting restlessly from one leg to the other, because the silence is making him nervous, and he wants to get back to Wardo. “You still there?”

“You … Chris, do you have something?”

“Nope,” Chris answers.

“Huh?” Mark doesn’t understand what the problem is here, unless they -- “Tell me you didn’t crash Facebook and we lost all our users.”

“What? No, of course not!” Dustin sounds horrified.

“It’s just … um … Mark … Wardo’s mom? And do you realize that this is the first time you actually asked how it’s going with Facebook since Wardo’s phone call?” Chris says.

“Oh, but she’s … well, okay, I guess.” He can’t explain it any other way, because he has trouble understanding it himself. He’s not entirely comfortable with her, but she let him stay with Wardo, and she seems to _understand_. “So, Facebook?”

“Huh? Oh, yes … everything working fine. Well, we could use your genius here and there, but it’s actually quite surprising how much we _don’t_ need you,” Dustin tells him, and he can hear the smirk from 2563 miles away. “But on to more important stuff. You and Wardo. Spill!”

“Dustin, there’s nothing -- ”

“Liar! I can hear your happiness over the phone. Actually, I think your smile just lit the whole fucking living room,” Dustin informs him and Mark rolls his eyes. How did he end up with him as his friend again? “Oh my God, they kissed! _Chris_! Chris, they kissed!”

“We -- ”

“Don’t you dare to lie to our faces, young man!” Dustin sounds way too excited over two guys kissing, Mark thinks.

“Okay, fine, we did,” he finally admits and can’t help the smile that’s threatening to break his face. On the other end of the line Dustin squeals like a girl, and Mark has to hold away the phone from his ear for a few seconds.

“So, you and Wardo, you two are together now?” Chris asks, and thankfully his voice is calm and devoid of any squee. He sounds like he’s smiling, though.

“Yes,” Mark confirms. And then he feels his knees go weak and he has to sit down, because this -- this is it. He’s Wardo’s _boyfriend_ now, and that’s a completely new concept to him, and it sounds a bit ridiculous, but on the other hand he thinks that this is worth more than being the CEO of Facebook.

“Thank God, man,” Dustin says and sounds close to sobbing. “See, Chris! That’s how you get and keep your man.”

“Are you actually proposing I regard Mark and Wardo as role models for my relationships?” Chris snorts, and Mark thinks he should feel offended, but then he thinks Chris is probably right. Nobody should waste as much time as he and Wardo did.

“Well, now that you put it that way … sorry, Mark,” Dustin says.

“Nevermind. Listen, I have to go back. I’ll call you tomorrow again, okay?”

“Sure. Say _hi_ from us, will you?” Chris says.

“And kiss him again! -- But don’t say it’s from us.”

“Just no, Dustin, just no,” Chris says with a sigh, and Mark has to laugh when he hangs up.


	5. Chapter 5

He doesn’t kiss Wardo when he gets back to his ICU room, but it has nothing to do with him not being interested. He just doesn’t think Wardo would appreciate being outed this way in front of his mom, and contrary to rumors, Mark does have a feeling for tact – it’s only that he chooses to spend his time on more sensible things than wasting it with being tactful.

 “Really, you shouldn’t have -- ”

“But I did, and it’s my prerogative as your mãe to do it,” Wardo’s mom calmly explains whatever thing that seems to agitate Wardo at the moment. Mark suspects tact would require him to leave undetected, but Wardo looks upset and as much as Mark has grown to like and respect Mrs. Saverin, Wardo is his priority right now.

“Hello, Mrs. Saverin,” he says and walks to Wardo’s bed. He barely refrains from putting his hand protectively on Wardo’s shoulder, but Wardo seems to relax in his presence nevertheless.

“Hello, Mark,” she says, “I was just telling Wardo that I bought an apartment here in Manhattan.”

“And I told you that I’m perfectly fine with the apartment I -- ”

“You’re not going back there, Eduardo,” she says, her lips forming a small line, and suddenly Mark understands. From all he’s heard and seen and researched, Wardo’s apartment must be horrible to look at. And from the way Wardo’s mom looks, distraught and pale, she probably saw the photos from the apartment. “And you won’t be allowed to fly for a while,” she explains, “so -- please -- let me do the one thing I can do and provide you a comfortable residence while you’re here.”

“Foi mal, mãe,” Wardo says quietly and squeezes her hand. “And thank you.”

Wardo’s mom doesn’t reply, and before Mark gets the chance to back her up, they’re ushered out of the room by one of the doctors, because he needs to check on Wardo. Mark is really, really sick of this, but he hasn’t the time to complain, because Wardo’s mom is leaning against the wall, squeezing her eyes shut. It rattles him to see her like this, and he doesn’t know what to do at first, because he’s more or less exhausted his social competence reservoir the last few days. But then, this is Wardo’s mom, and he tries to do things that make Wardo happy -- making sure that his mom is okay is probably pretty high on the happy-list.

“You okay? I mean … um … obviously, you’re not, but is there anything I can do?” he asks hesitantly.

“No, and I apologize for this,” she opens her eyes and straightens, “It’s just … ” she trails off.

“You saw the photos from the apartment, right?” 

She stares at him for what feels like an endless minute, as if she’s trying to decide whether he can stomach the truth or not. “Yes,” she finally says. “And he’s not going back there.”

“That bad?”

“There’s stuff no amount of bleach will get out,” she replies and his stomach revolts a bit. They spent a few moments looking at an ominous point at the wall, before she gently touches his arm. “It’s a two bedroom apartment and it has wireless,” she quietly says and he shoots her a questioning look (and no, he’s not panicking, not at all), but she simply smiles softly at him.

“Okay,” is all he can get out (he starts to suspect Wardo’s mom would actually stop the Brazilian mafia from hurting him unless he goes and breaks Wardo’s heart all over again -- it’s unsettling and comforting at the same time).

“Then please tell him I’ll be back tomorrow morning. It’s already late, and I have to finalize the contract for the apartment.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you, Mark,” she says, nods at him and leaves.

\---

“The apartment has two bedrooms. and wireless,” he tells Wardo, once he’s back in his room (he’s also holding Wardo’s hand, but he thinks he doesn’t need an excuse for this now that he’s Wardo’s _boyfriend_ \-- it still gives him a rush of warmth to his chest to carry this title).

“Two bedrooms and -- oh.” And Wardo suddenly has this deer caught in the headlights look, which instantly makes the warmth leave Mark’s body.

“I mean … not that I want to imply anything, it’s just that Dustin put me on the Most wanted list from the FBI or something, and I can’t board a plane anyway because of it -- ”

“You can’t leave,” Wardo interrupts him quietly, and now he looks as if Mark’s sole purpose in life is to kill Bambi. That doesn’t bode well, and he knows they’ve been here before, at the crossroad between misunderstanding and making it _right_ , and he screwed up before. So he racks his brain to find out what he said this time to make this look on Wardo’s face appear.

“No, wait -- ” And then suddenly it makes ‘bling’, and he understands and his eyes go wide. “Oh God, no! I didn’t mean it that way! And I could probably hack the FBI database and change whatever Dustin has done anyway, you know that, but that’s not the point, Wardo!” And he probably squeezes Wardo’s hand more than is strictly necessary, but he has to get his point across. “The thing is, I don’t want to! I want that second bedroom! Hell, I’d even sleep on the couch if there weren’t a second bedroom. Or the floor. Really, I couldn’t care less about sleeping arrangements as long as it’s somewhere near you.”

“So my mom didn’t pressure you into this? What about Facebook?” Wardo asks, still wearily.

“Wireless, and I can code anywhere as long as I have my laptop. Seriously, you already know that.” He makes a face. “And your mom freaks me a bit out with all she seems to know, but I actually think she’d protect me from the Brazilian mafia if push comes to shove.”

“The Brazilian mafia?” Wardo asks, while smiling that ridiculously big grin of his. Mark exhales a long breath, because that means everything is okay now, and he slowly loosens his death-grip on Wardo’s hand.

“Nevermind. By the way, Dustin and Chris say _hi_. And Dustin says I’m to kiss you again, but I don’t really need Dustin to tell me this,” he says and bends down to do as he was told (This is probably a high he’ll never get used to, he thinks happily).

\---

As it turns out, Mark is right about the kisses. It’s been two weeks and kissing Wardo is still as exciting and awesome as the first time. It’s even better now that there is no oxygen line in the way anymore. A lot of other cables have gone as well once Wardo had been released from ICU, and Wardo’s resulting wider range of movement has made the kisses even better than Mark had dared to imagine. Wardo is an excellent kisser, and judging from the sounds Wardo makes, Mark isn’t that bad either (and thank God for the private room, which means the nurses only appear at scheduled and easily figured out times).

Walking is still a bitch, though, and Mark hates the way Wardo pales more and more after each step. To the bathroom and back takes them half an hour, but Mark tries his best to stay positive. After all, Wardo _walks_ , he laughs, he eats and he drinks, and if he still sleeps half the day away and needs some time to catch his breath after a walk, Mark doesn’t care. Because then he sits there, holding on to Wardo’s hand, and waits (he never thought he wouldn’t mind waiting, but this is _Wardo_ and it seems as if this is the explanation for a lot of things).

“And you’re really sure you -- ”

“Yes, I am,” he says once again and tries really hard not to roll his eyes. Seriously, Wardo _knows_ how single-minded he can be. “And you do know what the definition of insanity is? Doing -- or in your case _asking_ the same question over and over again and expecting … ”

“A different result. Yes, I know,” Wardo says and ducks his head, embarrassed. He’s finally in normal clothes again (a plaid button-down and jeans, so maybe a bit underdressed for his standards, but a thousand times better than the hospital gown), and they’re waiting for the doctor to sign the release papers. Wardo has been nervous the whole morning, as if he expects something to stop them last minute from leaving the hospital behind.

“Hey,” Mark says gently and sits down next to Wardo on the bed, so close that they touch. Wardo looks unsure at him before he bends his head again, determined to study his shoes. “I’m not leaving, okay? Been there, done that -- it sucked. So, don’t make me leave again.”

“I don’t want you to -- ” Wardo’s head snaps up in horror, then he sees the grin on Mark’s face.

“See, we’re on the same page here, and there’s absolute no reason to rehash this question once again.” Which is not entirely true, because even Mark isn’t as deluded as to think that Wardo has no reason to not believe him, he just _hopes_ that Wardo believes him nevertheless. Because it’s true, and Mark would explain why he won’t leave in code if he thought Wardo would understand it.

“Sorry, I’m just … ” Wardo lets his head rest on Mark’s shoulder. “As stupid as this may sound, but this here … it’s like a safe haven for us, but outside … things are going to be different, Mark.”

And of course Mark knows that, because the world isn’t rainbows and roses, but has Christy and Wardo’s dad and a lot of other people who’ll probably frown upon them. But then, when was Mark ever the person to actually pay attention to what people thought about him (only Wardo matters, he thinks)? “I know, but can you give us at least the benefit of a doubt?” he asks. “Because _this_ \-- I don’t want to give up on this before we had a chance to really … I don’t know, see where it leads?” He holds his breath while he waits for Wardo’s answer.

“Okay,” Wardo finally says, and Mark relaxes against him.

\---

“Oh my God,” Wardo breathes when they enter the apartment his mom had bought (top floor, 24/7 security -- Mark absolutely has to buy that woman flowers).

“Yep, that seems an adequate reaction,” Mark says, his arm securely wrapped around Wardo’s upper body. Elevator or not, they still had to walk a bit and he wants Wardo to sit down on the couch before his knees give way. Mark has no clue about interior design, but he likes the apartment. It’s bright and spacey and has a huge glass front and a patio overlooking Central Park. So yes, maybe Wardo’s mom has trouble expressing her feelings directly, but she surely knows how to convey them via real estate.

“Shit … this … she shouldn’t have … ” Wardo trails off when he sinks down on the couch.

“I’m really glad that she decided to ignore you,” Mark says and spots his suitcase next to what he believes is the door of one of the bedrooms. He is about to grab and put it in what probably is his bedroom, when the doorbell interrupts him.

It’s Chris and Dustin, and before Mark can really process this he’s being buried under hugs (and okay, he’s been getting better with touches, but they’re not Wardo and this is entirely too much, thank you very much).

“We couldn’t wait any longer, Mark.”

“ -- booked the next flight as soon as you told us they’d release Wardo.”

“Where is he?”

“His mom actually sounds really nice on the phone -- ”

“Wardo!” Dustin yells, loosens his death grip on Mark’s shoulders and goes to hug Wardo, who got up and is now leaning against the kitchen counter. Mark is ready to growl at him to go easy, but Dustin doesn’t need a reminder that a tight hug will probably hurt Wardo and earn him a verbal smackdown from Mark.

“Good to see you up and around, man,” Dustin says, grinning from ear to ear.

“Seems like Mark took good care of you,” Chris says and draws Wardo into a quick hug.

“Yeah, he has,” Wardo says and would anybody smile the way he does, Mark would call it stupid, but it’s simply adorable on Wardo. “And what are you doing here? What about Face -- ”

“Uh no,” Dustin raises a finger to stop him. “Don’t say the f-word. We’re on vacation.”

“You do realize that you just equaled Fa -- ”

“Shush,” Dustin says, this time with more emphasis, and Wardo and Chris laugh. Some corner of Mark’s brain reminds him that he should be in panic because for all means and purposes nobody is watching over Facebook right now, but he’s somewhat ridiculously glad that Chris and Dustin are here, that it’s four of them again. He can’t bring himself to freak out because of that (which doesn’t mean he won’t fire Chris and Dustin if they didn’t take care of the site before leaving for New York).

“I’m hungry, do you have something to eat?” Dustin asks now, and Chris rolls his eyes at him.

“Please excuse him, he left his manners on the West Coast.”

“I never had them to begin with,” Dustin replies good-heartedly when he opens the fridge and his eyes go wide. “Woah … that looks like sandwiches, and salad, and … is that tuna? I think that one is for you, Mark. Who wants chicken sandwiches?” He asks and throws the tuna at Mark, who catches it with his right hand. “Your mom is awesome, Wardo,” Dustin says impressed.

“I’ll let her know,” Wardo says with a smile. “Want to eat outside?”

Of course they want to, so ten minutes later (walking is still slow, but nobody comments on it, they have all the time in the world) they sit in the bright sunshine on the patio and eat sandwiches and tuna. It feels ridiculously surreal and good at the same time, and if Mark sits closer than strictly necessary to Wardo, none of them cares.

“How long are you staying?” Wardo asks between two bites.

“Two days … well, if you don’t mind?” Chris says. “We have a hotel on -- ”

“Hotel? No way. You can stay here. We have a second bedroom”, Wardo explains, and Mark forgets what he’s wanted to do with the tuna on the fork. He had kind of expected to sleep in the second bedroom, but unless Wardo wants him to take a hotel (which he doesn’t, Mark knows that) it means that …

“Oh,” he says, and Dustin has the audacity to laugh at him.

“I mean,” Wardo coughs and blushes a bit when he looks at Mark, “unless you don’t … ”

“No, don’t be silly.” And before … well, before _everything_ , Mark would have probably taken the easy way out and said something along the lines of _it’s less complicated for everyone this way_ , and it wouldn’t have meant a thing, but he wants to believe he has changed. “That would be great.”

Behind Wardo’s back Dustin feigns to faint and Chris slaps his head, but they all grin, and it’s a warm summer day, and Mark grabs Wardo’s hand and Wardo squeezes back.

So yes, maybe Mark has no idea where any of this will lead, but for the first time in a really long time he’s not scared of the unknown.

\- _fin  
_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to all the wonderful people over at the tsn kinkmeme, their comments kept me going. Also thanks to [Leviathans Moon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/leviathans_moon/pseuds/leviathans_moon) and Uena, who where the first to look over this. [Rei](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Rei), you know your cheerleading means the world to me. And last but not least, a huge thank you to Thisirissius, who beta’d all of this. All mistakes left are my own.
> 
> A Russian translation, amazing fanart and a fabulous fanvideo can be found [here](http://slashyaoi.borda.ru/?1-16-0-00000006-000-0-0). I strongly urge you to check these out even if you don't understand Russian.


End file.
